


Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettles

by PorcelainStorm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, OFC - Freeform, Original Character(s), Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Burn, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 73,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcelainStorm/pseuds/PorcelainStorm
Summary: 'A Case of Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettles'“Very original title, John,” Sherlock snorted.  John glared up at his friend, his fingers hovering over the keyboard."The whole case was about betrayal, plants, and pharmaceuticals," he shot back. "It's a clever title.""What about chemistry? There was plenty of chemistry.""Our client was a botanist," John rolled his eyes and continued typing at the laptop. "Don't worry, there's plenty of mention of your glorious prowess with chemical reactions."
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 145





	1. Amelia

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first shot at writing an OC (or anything) in the Sherlock universe. Go figure I'm like, a decade late to the party... 
> 
> I've been trying to write this as I work through grad school and study for the LSAT, so it's more a mental break than anything serious, haha.  
> I've been having fun writing it, so I figured I may as well share it! I'm going to update tags and such as the story goes on, because I have NO idea what to put (I write too much Marvel apparently...).
> 
> Timeline wise, it's definitely before the "Fall", but I haven't decided whether we're going with series 1 or 2 Sherlock yet. It'll be figured out before the end, since I plan on throwing some of the plots from the show in it, but largely the first part is its own mystery. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_Unlike most cases on this blog, Sherlock and I stumbled into this one quite accidentally._

_Sherlock had made Mrs. Hudson upset, and when I revealed that it was her birthday, I quickly ushered him to the nearest florist._

_That was where we met Amelia Brenner, the first person I'd ever known that spoke the language of the flowers fluently._

* * *

Amelia Brenner disliked the rain that so often plagued London. If she had a choice in the matter, she would have been back home, probably sunbathing on the rooftop of her Brooklyn apartment. Unfortunately, life had a cruel sense of humor, and that led to Amelia's present circumstances.

She often lamented that she was the one being punished for having done right by society, but the brief periods of sunshine that occasionally peaked through the London skyline, reminded her that this wasn't the all terrible exile she'd convinced herself it was.

Today, was one of those rare, beautiful, days.

And there were two grown men in the front of her flower shop bickering over which flowers they needed to purchase to appease their landlady.

“Roses are safe,” she suggested, eyes trailing to the clear sky outside longingly. “Red and yellow are happiness and excitement. Just yellow mean friendship.”

“I didn't realize flowers had their own language,” the shorter gentleman turned around with a nervous chuckle. He looked out of place, and clearly overwhelmed, but no so much as the dark-hair man beside him.

“Perfect, that'll do,” the second man shot in, visibly annoyed at the entire situation.

Amelia was just as eager to get the men out of her shop, and quickly moved to the side of the shop where she stored her roses in a refrigerator.

“Shouldn't we get her something more meaningful?” the shorter man asked, as Amelia's fingers nearly touch the stem of the yellow roses. She froze, throwing on a bright smile and turning around.

“Do you know what her favorite flowers are? We could add them to the rose bouquet,” she suggested, a passing child and their laughing friends running by with ice cream reminded her of her urgency to close up early for the day.

“God if I know,” the brunette shrugged impatiently. “John, you remember pointless things like that. Why don't you know?”

“You've known her longer, Sherlock,” the blonde, John, shot back. “Not once, have you gotten her a birthday present?”

“It didn't seem important,” he muttered, turning his attention to the numerous displays sitting in the shop window.

“I'm sorry, my friend is a bit difficult when it comes to any semblance of intimacy or emotional attachment,” John shot his turned away friend a scowl before approaching Amelia. “Are there any flowers that mean, 'beloved friend', or something similar?”

Amelia paused, half-tempted to just grab the yellow roses, but John seemed earnest in his request, despite the difficult behavior his friend was displaying.

“You know what...” Amelia moved toward a different section of the store where she had various flowers set in plastic vases for “do-it-yourself” bouquets. “Tell me about your landlady.”

“She's an older woman,” John started, hesitating slightly. “Very kind. Always has a cup of tea ready for you on a bad day.”

“Nosy, likes invading your personal space,” Sherlock chimed in.

“It's because you do things like shoot bullets through walls,” John reminded him tersely. “She gets _concerned_.”

Amelia plucked a few coreopsis, orange geraniums, and a large sunflower. Grabbing a few sprigs of sage and some Queen Anne's lace for accents, she moved to the main counter and dug through her drawers for a crystal vase she'd seen laying around.

It didn't take long for her to take the random assortment of flowers and turn them into a gorgeous display of yellows and orange. The white accents of the lace, pulled the whole thing together in a practical, tasteful way.

“What do they all mean?” John asked, glancing up from the card Amelia had given him to fill out and attach to the bouquet.

“Queen Anne's lace means sanctuary,” Amelia lightly touched the small white flowers. “A short sunflower means _adoration_ , geraniums mean _true friendship_ , sage means _wisdom_ , and corepsis mean _always cheerful_.”

“That's perfect,” John practically beamed up at her, signing both his and Sherlock's name to the bottom of the card.

Amelia rang up his purchase, giving the men a small discount because she felt a little bad about their circumstances. Especially, once John went into more detail about exactly what it was his friend had done (something about a snippy comment about the woman's sweater).

“You said a short sunflower means adoration, what does a tall one mean?” Sherlock spoke up, looking quite uncomfortable as John shoved the vase into his hands.

Amelia had to bite her bottom lip to keep down the giggle that wanted to erupt with her response. She swallowed it down, turning it into a cough before coolly responding.

“ _Haughtiness_.”

John snorted a laugh and ushered Sherlock out of the store before the taller man could make a comment. He thanked Amelia again over his shoulder and was gone in a flash.

Amelia quickly ran to the front door, flipping over the open sign to “closed”, and locked it in place. She looked at her watch and calculated she had about three hours until the sun began to set, giving her plenty of time to sit in the green house she'd constructed on the roof, and take in a bit of the sunshine with her plants.

She tided up the shop, humming an excited tune under her breath while she cashed out the register and wiped down the counters. All was going smoothly until a very urgent visitor began pounding at her front door.

Thinking she'd forgotten an order, or perhaps John or Sherlock had dropped something, she unlocked the door and swung it open.

What Amelia hadn't anticipated was the front end of a pistol to bed shoved into her chest and a group of three men to storm into her tiny space.

The last man in quickly closed the door behind him, while the other two started pulling down blinds, the gun still trained on a stunned Amelia.

“Can I help you?” she stammered, her hands up in defense, trying to think of an escape plan through the fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. The backdoor was too far. There weren't any nearby windows.

She was stuck.

One of the men kicked down a display. Gerbera daisies scattered across the floor in a splash of color that the man quickly stepped on, and twisted his foot. He chuckled at Amelia's face, distorted in distress at the careless handling of the flowers she'd dedicated her free time to. 

“ _The data set,_ ” the man with the gun snarled. Amelia noticed he was missing a front tooth, and that had distracted her considerably. He fired a bullet near her feet, repeating his question.

“I have no idea what that means,” she whimpered in response. The men were working their way around the shop, kicking over display, stomping on flowers, and pouring lighter fluid over their destroyed remains.

“Don't play dumb sweetheart, it's not a good look,” he stepped closer, pressing the tip of the weapon into her cheek. “The data set with the clinical trial results. A mutual friend wants it back.”

Amelia continued feigning ignorance, despite knowing precisely what data set he was referring to. It was safely tucked away in a deposit box, across town, under an assumed name.

“I just deal in flowers,” she insisted, a small sob pulling from her chest as they continued to demolished her little shop. “If you look to the bottom of your boots, that's the pretty stuff you're _destroying_.”

“Don't get cheeky with me,” the man with the gun snapped back. "An American in London, setting up shop just after the biggest data breach in Chemco's history..."

“And what are you going to do about it? Shoot me?” Amelia regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. The small wave of confidence immediately fading while he moved forward. He pulled his hand back and hit her across the face with the end of his weapon.

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asked, just familiar enough where Amelia caught her breath when she identified the source.

The king of sunflowers himself, standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

Sherlock Holmes. 

“You'd be wise to turn around and pretend you haven't seen a thing,” the man with the gun aimed it toward Sherlock with a wicked grin. “This doesn't have to involve you.”

“I see,” he hummed, his eyes trailing over the scene, falling on Amelia and what she assumed was a large bruise forming under her eye. “Unfortunately, I left my mobile at the register, so if someone would be so inclined?”

The man closest to Amelia threw an elbow in her side, shoving her toward the register.

“Go on then,” he hissed, his weapon still aimed at the newcomer.

Amelia practically jumped at the touch, slowly edging her way toward the register. There was no cell phone left behind. No one had time to ask questions, because during the lull in the room, Sherlock moved.

With a crack, he smashed a large vase over the man with the gun. The goon collapsed on the floor with a grunt, the other two men moving into action with swinging fists.

Sherlock dodged the attacks, throwing one man into the counter top and knocking the other to the floor unconscious with a swift punch.

He looked up at Amelia, brow arched in question.

“Why does it smell like petrol?” he asked, an instant before one of the men tossed a lighter across the floor to Amelia's destroyed daisies. 

Amelia bounded across the space in a flurry, catching him by the waist, and tackling him through the shop's open door to the busy street outside. She rolled across the ground, only being caught by the shoulder before hitting the curb. 

It didn't take long for the shop to erupt into flames, the lighter fluid speeding up the consumption which the plants happily provided.

Dazed, Amelia and Sherlock gaped from outside as smoke billowed from the building.

Pedestrians screamed or stopped to get a better look. Somewhere in her muddled mind, Amelia heard someone calling the fire department.

“There's a green house on the roof,” Sherlock murmured. “Do you have fertilizer in the building?”

She sure did. Right by the register and tucked away in the workroom. She was going to bring it up that day.

Amelia's eyes widened at the realization, and it didn't take her new companion long to determine the answer.

Practically lifting her from their position, he dragged her stumbling across the street just as the first explosion sounded through the block, sending glass shattering across the area.

Dropping to the ground, covered in soot, small cuts, and dirt, Amelia looked to him and sighed.

“Thanks,” she said, resting her head against the brick building they ended on, and watching what little happiness she'd obtained burn to the ground. Go figure.

Fire sirens wailed through the block, firemen ushered passerby's out of the way, and before long, Sherlock and Amelia were scooped up by EMTs.

When she was patched up, an officer took her to Scotland Yard for a statement.

Amelia told the officers investigating that it had been a robbery gone wrong. No, she didn't know why they wanted to destroy her shop. She grew daisies and wrapped roses, why would she understand why they threw lighter fluid around the place? Of course it was reasonable that fertilizer was in a flower shop. She grew her own flowers after all.

Eventually, she was released from Scotland Yard, exhausted from the day, but with no where to go, considering her apartment was above the shop.

She had money in the bank, but her debit card and ID had been under the register when the shop caught fire. It was going to take some time before she could get what she needed to book out a hotel room. One of the officers had given her an address to a hostel they recommended to fire victims until things were settled, but the idea of something so public made Amelia nervous. She already wasn't thrilled that the news had covered the fire.

“Why lie to the police?” a baritone voice asked over her shoulder. Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin at the presence, whipping her head around and finding Sherlock standing a few meters away.

“Excuse me?” Amelia wasn't sure if she'd heard him correctly, her mind numb and tired from the days events. She just wanted a shower and a fresh change of clothes, not the second degree from this vigilante ninja detective.

“You _lied_ to the police, you said it was a robbery,” he repeated, taking a few steps toward her, his blue eyes skimming over her face. “You're a bad liar, and that obviously wasn't a normal robbery. They were looking for something specific.”

Amelia had over heard some of the officers at the station talking about Sherlock when she revealed he had been the one who had saved her. When she asked the officer taking her statement, he just shrugged and said that he was a consultant to the Yard, but others certainly had stronger feelings about the subject.

Amelia looked around the street, largely empty aside from a few taxis and a couple walking along the sidewalk across the road.

“Fine, I'll bite,” she replied. “I'm in possession of some important research regarding a drug that's about to be finalized by the FDA and the NHS.”

“I'd venture to guess this research isn't beneficial to the company?” he asked.

“They blew up my shop and pistol whipped me,” Amelia laughed bitterly, her hand moving to touch the swollen spot on her face. “It certainly isn't rainbows and sunshine cures.”

He paused, considering her words before speaking again.

“Do you know who sent the men?” he asked, and Amelia shrugged, exhaustion continuing to creep over her. She still smelled like smoke and gasoline, her arms and clothes still ripped and black. Not that she could do anything about it.

“I'm assuming the CEO,” Amelia replied, a hint of irritation was rising in her voice as she realized how hopeless her night was going to be.

“And why would a CEO become personally involved in a bad publicity matter?” he inquired. It was a reasonable question, and Amelia might have avoided specifics but she was in no mood to play games, and it seemed this guy was going to get his answers eventually. Besides, she owed him some explanation for saving her life.

“ _Because she's my mother.”_

* * *


	2. Eavesdrop

* * *

_There were a few reasons why Sherlock decided to take Amelia's case. Though personally, I don't ever recall her asking us for help. She'd managed to negotiate a shower in exchange for information, and when she showed up to our flat covered in soot and dirt, I immediately admonished Sherlock's careless behavior. I lent her some spare clothes, and Mrs. Hudson brought up some tea, thanking her for the artful touch she'd put into the flowers. After things had settled down and night began to fall, Amelia Brenner told us her story._

* * *

Amelia Brenner was a far cry from the bright saleswoman she'd been just hours before. The auburn curls that bounced with her step, had been tied back into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her green eyes were muted, her smile was forced and weak. John was almost positive the freckles that dotted her cheeks and nose, lost luster over the course of the day.

“My mother inherited Chemco Pharmaceuticals from my grandfather about fifteen years ago,” Amelia took a long sip of the chamomile tea Mrs. Hudson had insisted upon and took a breath. “I started working for research and development after I'd finished my PhD in botany. I ended up duel enrolling for a Pharmacology doctorate that was paid for by the company in exchange for a five year non-competing contract after graduation.”

“My mother's company exploded in size in the last decade. They had their hands on the best scientists, the strongest research, and the most innovative methods. Recruiting me was logical on my mother's part. I'd already dabbled in replicating certain botanical molecules into lab generated copies that boosted the effectiveness of certain medications with fewer side effects. It was perfect. She covered my expensive school bills, and I got to research whatever I wanted, so long as it benefited the company.

“I'm guessing things didn't stay that way for long?” John asked sympathetically. Amelia shook her head, her shoulders hanging forward. She looked tired, broken down from all of the stress she'd clearly been burdening for some time.

“I heard a rumor,” she explained. “There had been a new hire, a doctor from Stanford who was working on an exclusive project. Classified, and only carefully vetted research assistants were allowed access to the data. I was recruited, and on the first day, I was astonished at what I found.”

There was a horror that danced behind her eyes in the sad look she shared with the men before continuing her tale.

“They were killing people,” she stated, taking another sip of her tea. “Not directly though, subtly, through tainted medications. It'd apparently started small, with rival investors, or pharmacy executives who didn't carry Chemco products in their stores. But then there was a legitimate interest by an outside investor who wanted to take some of our research and apply it to a sample of drugs that were sold publicly.”

“Why?” John was sitting on the edge of his seat, quite literally, his stomach turning at the thought of these so called medical professionals carelessly violating their oaths to the public.

“Cures don't bolster stocks,” her mother had hissed when Amelia approached her. “This will be good for business.”

“Keeping cancer patients dependent on _your_ therapies?”

_“I'm helping them,”_ Lydia Brenner slammed her hands on her desk, the normally composed business woman's demeanor shifting violently. “We're providing relief for side effects of their therapies.”

“That _you_ created,” Amelia screamed back, her fingers digging into the leather material of one of the office chairs that separated the women. “You're taking _my_ research and turning it into something... _you're a monster._ You can't do this.”

“It's _my_ research, dear,” her mother reminded her, her voice lowering sharply. “It's _my_ data, and _my_ company, and I think you'd be smart to keep that in mind.”

“Or what?” Amelia stepped out from behind the chair. “I'm your daughter, or have you forgotten?”

“Tell that to your uncle,” Lydia merely hummed, before calling security to escort Amelia out of the building. “Do remember to leave your badge at reception, love.”

Amelia had found herself fired, and thrown onto the sidewalk outside of the Midtown, New York, New York, headquarters of Chemco.

What her mother didn't know, was that Amelia had replicated the database onto multiple hard-drives, and saved the damning information to an encrypted cloud, days before she'd approached the CEO.

“My first phone call was to my uncle Max,” she shook her head. “We'd cut contact after my mom convinced me that he was basically the devil incarnate. Turns out, it was the opposite. He'd been the true heir to the company, and she'd manipulated the board, hired a crew of attorneys and ripped him out of the position. He ended up coming back home, to Essex, to try and move past all of it.”

She'd purchased a burner phone for that conversation, unsure of what level of control her mother truly exercised in her life. Max advised her to pull any money, and secure her trust before her mother got her hands into the small fortune Amelia had garnered. She worked quickly, pretending to be job hunting, while packing her belongings, and making small shipments to her uncle's storage in London.

It'd been a little over a month when she got her first unannounced visitor at her Brooklyn apartment. A private investigator who was asking about her knowledge regarding a data breach.

Someone had taken unauthorized information from Chemco, and someone was going to face serious circumstances if someone didn't give it back immediately.

Amelia played dumb, offered him a cup of coffee and wished him the best in his investigation.

She sent the first hard-drive to her cousin Ruthie, Max's oldest daughter, in Kent.

With the confirmation that she was being watched, Amelia was more calculated in her actions moving forward.

She spent the week finalizing travel plans, emptying her apartment of everything aside from large furniture, and quietly purchased a one-way ticket to London, where her uncle promised to help her decipher the data, and get her in contact with the proper authorities.

The drugs in question were supposed to hit the market soon, and aside from the lab, there was no way that Amelia could properly vet which specific chemicals were being added.

Not to mention, it was being added _randomly_ to vials. Some would have the component, others wouldn’t. She would have to raid a pharmacy to confirm the data, and there was no telling what decisions had been made after she’d stolen the data.

“My uncle Max lent me one of his old retail spaces here in London,” she looked especially sad at this part of the story. “There was a hope that maybe my mother had come to her senses after all of the trouble. We hadn’t heard any announcements about the drugs or anything for over two months. I started a life here, at least as best a life someone could start in these circumstances.”

From there, it was pretty easy to piece together what happened next. Her mother still wanted that data secured. She wanted to secure the market without any intervention or trouble.

“Where is the data now?” Sherlock questioned, tapping his fingers in a steeple.

“Ruthie has one,” she explained. “There’s another copy in a security box across town, and I stored a third under the register at the shop.”

“So, two functional hard drives are out there?” he clarified and Amelia nodded. He stood up, moving toward the coat hanger, looking to John and Amelia expectantly. “We should secure it as quickly as possible.”

John scoffed. Typical Sherlock. Amelia looked about a step away from a full breakdown, and he was focused solely on the case.

“Now probably isn’t the best time,” John asserted quickly, sending an apologetic smile in Amelia’s direction. She watched the exchange passively, her gaze bouncing between the two men as they bickered.

“We can’t wait for the company to secure all of the data, then we’d have no evidence, John,” Sherlock’s tone sounded more like a parent scolding a child, rather than two friends discussing a potential international disaster.

“And what if you were followed? We just lead them right to the hard drive and let them ambush us?” John shot back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes pulling a pistol from his jacket pocket and passing it to John.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s why we’re _all_ going,” he sighed, clearly itching to get a move on.

“Amelia has clearly been through a lot tonight,” John scowled at his friend, setting the gun on the table. “And the bank probably isn’t even open right now.”

He knew he had a point there, and Sherlock considered it briefly. If John knew his friend, and he _knew_ Sherlock, the detective was probably weighing the pros and cons of breaking into the vault that evening.

“ _Fine_ ,” he huffed, throwing the coat aside, and grabbing John’s new cup of tea before disappearing through the kitchen to his room. “First thing in the morning!”

Amelia watched the exchanged quietly, waiting until she was left alone with John in the living room before speaking up.

“He’s loads of fun at parties, isn’t he?” she asked with a small grin.

John laughed, knowing already he was going to enjoy her presence immensely.

* * *

While John and Amelia figured out their sleeping areas for the night, Sherlock paced his room, thinking through what the florist had told them.

The data _could_ be outdated, but it could contain the chemical equations necessary for testing any of the tainted samples. The problem was the randomization. He could get John to sign off on a number of prescriptions, but that would potentially raise red flags with the NHS.

Mycroft could get his hands on a shipment, but there was a chance that if Chemco was already acting so bold, they had a person on the inside who could raise the alarm if the government intervened too prematurely.

There was also the consideration of Amelia Brenner being killed before the data could be accurately deciphered, not that this was a huge concern for him. He was more than capable of interpreting and applying chemical equations, he just lacked the specific research she would have been able to supply.

He paused, eyes darting toward his laptop.

That was where he could start that night, reading through her doctoral research and any relevant publication under her name.

He started with a basic background check. Everything lined up with what she’d told them, graduated from a high ranking American university pursing both a PhD in botany and PharmD concurrently. She took a little longer than the average researcher to graduate with her degrees, but it was obvious she was trying to use what resources she could to fund her research. And there was a lot of it.

She’d obtained samples of nearly extinct plants and flowers from around the world, extensively cultivated them, took their chemical properties and studied their medicinal values based off of local lore and cultural studies.

There had been a significant bit of truth to the stories, as she had detailed a number of sedatives, pain relievers, and immune boosting properties within her samples.

She published to three journals, before there was an abrupt stop in her research, immediately after her graduation. It must have been the stranglehold her mother held on the information. He frowned in irritation at the dead end, why didn’t anyone fund science for the sake of science?

It did explain the shift in careers. This was a woman interested in flowers, thrown into a laboratory setting. There was a clear distinction about the way she’d held herself when speaking about haughtiness and friendship and their corresponding blooms, compared to the way she’d detailed her research.

She seemed ashamed.

Still, it opened a potentially fascinating case for him. It’d been some time since he’d been able to put his chemical prowess to the test, and being able to take down an exploitive organization like Chemco? Double the fun.

He just wanted to get his hands on that data set.

Glancing at the clock; 4:04 am; he groaned out loud.

A pounding on the floor above him and John's muffled yelling confirmed that there was still a bit of time until morning.

* * *


	3. Embers

* * *

_Sherlock isn’t the type to blend into a crowd unless he really wanted to. Couple that with an out of place American and myself, and you have yourself quite the show._

_Folks on the Tube recognized him immediately, and swarmed him asking for pictures. A few younger ladies asked if Amelia was his girlfriend and she would jokingly change her answer each time._

_“I’m his cousin.”_

_“-his administrative supervisor.”_

_“-his testicular oncologist.”_

_That last one scared away any fans who lingered about._

_It was difficult to tell if Sherlock was disappointed by the lack of attention or impressed with Amelia’s ability to be make someone so uncomfortable, they walked away._

* * *

“Can you stop wiggling your foot?” She snapped her head toward Sherlock who’d been bouncing his leg impatiently. They were three stops away from the bank, and after a brief fan frenzy, Amelia was relieved that the whole ordeal was almost over.

In and out, she reminded herself mentally over and over. She had no reason to believe someone would attack her in the middle of the day, at a busy London bank, with two quasi-celebrities. It would draw too much attention.

Still, it only took a moment for someone to look away from her and she could be snatched up, gone without a trace. Locked away in Chemco’s basement until she died.

“Can _this trai_ n move any faster?” Sherlock had shot back to her, continuing to bounce his leg.

“Come on Sherlock, she’s nervous,” John tried to intervene, but the detective ignored him like a petulant child.

“John, I don’t know how you handle him,” Amelia murmured, her jaw clenched as she watched the dot on the subway map move closer to their stop. “I’d have murdered him by now.”

“Good luck with that,” Sherlock replied snidely. “I bet you wouldn’t know the first thing about how to get rid of a body undetected.”

The train stopped at their station and he stood up, gliding out of the doors, leaving Amelia and John jogging to catch up with him.

“A lye solution at 300 degrees Fahrenheit for three hours,” she snapped back at him, catching sight of the bank and crossing the street without another comment.

The building boasted some of the best security in the world. It provided top of the line security personnel, fingerprint scanning, and a nearly impenetrable vault.

Granted, all Amelia needed was access to the security boxes and the key in her front pocket. It would have been too risky to leave any traces of her presence even in such a secure location.

The bank was ornate, suitable for some of the biggest businesses in town. Amelia wouldn't have been surprised to find if the bank held billions in cash behind the well dressed clerks and smiling attendants. 

“And where would you even find a proper container to break down the flesh components? Lye is a very corrosive base,” Sherlock’s voice floated over her shoulder while she waited in line to speak with a bank employee.

“ _Jesus_ -!” Amelia caught herself in the chest, nearly startled out of her skin at the detective’s sudden presence.

“You should learn to watch over your shoulder,” he mused, and if Amelia knew him better, she would have seen a twinkle of mischief in his blue eyes. “Especially when hired hands are out to get you.”

A middle-aged female employee stepped up to the pair, and Amelia smiled her way through explanations before she was lead to the back vault with her security box.

“You’re unassuming enough to throw people off their suspicions,” Sherlock noted quietly, watching the employee leave the room. “Even _with_ the accent.”

“I’m just a _nice_ person,” she replied, unlocking the box and sliding the metal panel off of the top. " _Sometimes_ people are decent to you if you don't act like a baby from the start."

"That's not what happened on the train," he reminded her. "I would even venture to say you were even quite _rude_."

She ignored him, focusing on the security box.

Sure enough, sitting at the bottom of the velvet lined box, in a hard plastic case, was the hard-drive. Plucking it out, she opened the case to double check that everything was still in place, before passing it to Sherlock.

“That has everything I’ve got for proof,” she explained while he tapped the plastic case impatiently. Clearly _someone_ had big plans for the evening. He waited while she closed things up, summoning the employee to lock up the vault once again.

“Why didn’t you close the account?” he asked once they’d stepped out of the bank.

“All of my IDs are back home,” she replied sheepishly. “Honestly, it’s a little concerning they didn’t check anything there. I mean, this particular ID is fake, but _they_ don’t know that.”

“Speaking of, should we try and recover what we can over at the shop?” John hurried over to pair, checking over his shoulder. "Check for clues and the such?"

“Are we allowed?” she questioned with a nervous frown. Sherlock and John exchanged an amused look before the detective summoned a taxi with a wave of his hand.Giving the shop’s address, Amelia chewed her bottom lip as she thought through the last twenty-four hours. Certainly her uncle would have heard about the fire and tried to contact her, but her phone had been left behind by the register.

She really needed to start carrying things on her person.

There’d be insurance adjusters, not to mention, the fire marshal said he was going to swing by at some point in the week to double check the burn patterns and her report.

When the taxi arrived, Amelia’s heart sank when she saw the extent of the damage.

The building was just about gutted, the fire having spread from the shop to her small apartment above. Hopefully, the small fire-proof safe she’d purchased for her passport and birth certificate held up to the heat in her closet.

John paid the taxi driver while Sherlock and Amelia stared up at the blackened mess. It still smelled like burnt wood, the wind catching a few ashes and scattering them at her feet.

“Shall we then?” John took the first step toward the entrance, lifting the yellow police tape that blocked the way, ushering Amelia and Sherlock underneath.

If the outside looked bad, the inside was even worse. Hollow shells of her previously cheerful shop were all that remained. The refrigerator with the roses was just shattered glass and blackened metal. The register had all but melted to what remained of the wooden countertops.

Lifting what Amelia assumed was her cell phone off of the rubble, she sighed.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she confessed, stepping through the debris pathetically. She had the place barely two months, and already it had gone the fate of all her other hopes and dreams. John and Sherlock were picking through piles of ash for anything that survived.

Wandering into the back room where she had been preparing some wedding centerpieces, Amelia found broken vases and charred flower remains. Her desk was, surprisingly, still standing, though covered in burn marks.

All of the extra storage containers and seedlings she’d been babying had been destroyed. All of that time and money, gone in a few hours.

“I’m headed upstairs,” she called to the men, earning a pair of affirming shouts in response.

The stairs leading to her apartment were covered in water and soot, with a few spots nearly breaking under her weight as she went. Watching her feet, she was thankful to see that a few things upstairs had survived the fire.

The safe was her first priority. While she was looking through her closet for the small metal box, she was surprised to see it already pulled out and open on the floor of the bedroom.

It made sense that someone would have checked for the hard-drive there, though they’d been kind enough to leave behind her identifying documents (alebit a few hundred dollars in cash that were noticeably missing.)

At least she’d be able to get a new phone and banking card. She wouldn’t have to sleep on the old couch at Baker Street that night.

Pocketing the papers, she dug through her clothes and found a few outfits that had been saved from damage. Searching the small space, she located her backpack hanging near the staircase, the lining only slightly melted from the heat.

Stuffing anything she could salvage into the bag, Amelia saved anything that would just need a good wash.

Fortunately, her photographs and scrapbooks had been moved to Ruthie’s storage shed in Kent a few weeks previously, leaving mostly clothes and small knick-knacks she’d located around London.

Locating a pile of singed sketches and soot covered canvases, Amelia picked through the pile trying to save as many art supplies and pictures as possible.

The irony of her flower portraits being burnt around the edges wasn’t lost on her, and she piled the papers and sketchbooks under her arm, grabbing any unburnt pencils and throwing them with her clothes into her backpack.

“Any luck?” John peeked up from the stairs with a curious glance around the space.

“The essentials were still in the safe,” she confirmed, pulling out her passport. “And a few changes of clothes, so I’m not totally destitute.”

“And art supplies?” he perked up, walking more fully into the room to look at the ruined mess at her feet. Lifting one of the more aggressively burnt canvas’ he clicked his tongue in disappointment. “What a shame, these were beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Amelia was genuinely touched by the doctor’s compliments. It’d been some time since she’d shown anyone her work, much less and objective stranger. “I guess it means I have to work on something new.”

“It looks like you were able to save some stuff,” he noted with a nod toward the bundle under her arm. “I’d like to see it sometime.”

“You did lend me your sofa last night, so I’d say it’s a square deal,” she chuckled, ducking past a fallen ceiling beam and moving toward the stairs again.

She asked him about his hobbies, and he confessed there wasn’t much outside of crime solving.

“We should have a paint and pour,” she joked.

“A what?” John blinked as they rejoined Sherlock.

“We drink _wine_ and paint a _picture_ ,” the detective interpreted coolly. “There wasn’t much left for clues as to who the men were. The fire effectively destroyed any organic evidence.”

“I’m not surprised,” Amelia kicked at a melted water bucket on the ground. It was pretty good at destroying all living things, she silently added.

“Shall we get lunch?” John turned to the pair. It was obvious he was trying to cheer up the sour mood between his two companions. “I imagine you probably have to go apartment hunting as well, we could look for listings in the paper?”

“Great idea John, I’m famished,” Sherlock was out the door first, not bothering to wait up for Amelia or John.

“At least he has the data,” Amelia tried to assure John, who looked after his friend in confusion.

“He was fine a second ago,” John mumbled, shrugging off the behavior and helping Amelia over the rubble and back outside.

They discussed meal plans, but Sherlock continued to remain quiet, lost in his own world. John didn't seem to pay much mind to it, aside from the initial confusion in the shop. So, Amelia followed his lead, despite her gut telling her that something was off.

Deciding on Speedy’s Cafe back at Baker Street, the group elected to walk the few blocks instead of paying for another car. John carried the canvas’, chatting about the general fare at the cafe, asking about what else Amelia would need to get done and offering his cell for her to call her uncle.

Stopping outside of 221 B, Sherlock quickly excused himself into the apartment, telling John and Amelia to get a table.

“You know what? Drop your stuff off in the flat, and I’ll meet you guys here in a few minutes?” he offered, passing the art back to her. Amelia agreed, and was not very far behind the detective.

“Hey Sherlock where should-,” Amelia stopped mid sentence when she saw the flower sprig Sherlock was examining under the light.

Seeing the new comer, he immediately thrust it behind his back.

“Ah, you know, wherever,” he gestured vaguely around the room, watching her pointedly while she deposited her items on the couch.

“Whatcha got there, Sherlock?” she inquired, taking a step forward, bending to get a look at his back.

“ _Nothing_ ,” he jumped away, turning toward her. “Shouldn’t you be with John? I’ll be down in a second.”

Amelia frowned, starting toward the door, and whirling on her toes just before leaving, catching Sherlock by surprise as she tackled him to the ground.

They hit the old wooden floor with a thud, Sherlock whacking his head on the floorboards and Amelia smacking the back of her head on John’s side table.

“Ugh, that was poorly planned,” she grumbled, rubbing her head. Sherlock seemed to agree with a grunt, absently rubbing the back of his head with the hand holding the flower.

Eyes wide, she took her chance and plucked it free, hopping up, and immediately identifying it.

“Aconite?” she asked, shaking her head. "Where on _earth_ did you find this?”

He stood up and snapped it back, moving to his chair and examining it under a magnifying glass he pulled from his pocket.

“Also known as Monkshood," he supplied dryly, snatching the flower back. "I found it at the shop."

“You’re quite the clever one, Sherlock Holmes,” Amelia snarked back. “But I know for a fact my Monkshoods were still seeding in the back room, so it’s impossible I had one in full bloom. So unless someone dropped it-”

She stopped when he looked up at her with raised brows. Her mouth slowly fell into an “oh” shape.

“You said the flowers have their own language,” he turned it over between his fingers, holding it up toward her. “Care to enlighten me?”

“‘ _Hatred_ ’,” she recited meekly, paling at the implication. “and _'be cautious’_.”

* * *


	4. Iris

* * *

_Did you know that an Iris means ‘a message’? I picked up a book on flower meanings when Amelia and Sherlock began quizzing one another after finding the Monkshood in the shop._

_While Amelia sought out a new apartment, she was staying in a small hotel up the road, stopping by daily for about two weeks now, trying to piece things together with Sherlock and I._

_Eventually, I suggested 221C, not that I referenced any previous negative associations regarding the space. Sherlock spilled the beans when he asked incredulously if it was “safe”, but nonetheless, Amelia agreed, albeit on a trial basis. She confessed to already feeling like she was intruding in our lives._

_It took less than a day before Max Brenner met us in town, a large moving truck trailing behind him. It was reassuring that despite Amelia’s lack of relationship with her mother, she still had one member of her family watching her back. In a sense, it reminded me of a certain pair of brothers…_

* * *

“I told you, I was going to order everything next week,” Amelia complained as the movers passed her on the sidewalk with her new bed frame. “I had it covered.”

“Ruthie gets the same way whenever I try to do _one nice thing for her,_ ” Max gave a low sigh, closing his eyes until Amelia snorted back a laugh.

“If anything I should be doing the nice things for you,” Amelia pulled him into a hug.

“It’s not your fault that your mother’s a hell of a psychotic cunt,” he replied bluntly. “I’m sorry about the shop.”

“Stop, I’m the one who should be apologizing,” she insisted, swatting his arm. “I’m sorry I burnt down your incredibly expensive piece of London real estate.”

He shrugged off her words, instructing the movers to be extra careful with a large vanity mirror.

“I’m fairly certain the chemist store your grandpa ran in the day was a front for laundering,” he smirked. “A lot of good people, us Brenner’s.”

“Only takes _one_ to break the dysfunction,” she mused.

“I don’t get it,” John shimmied past the movers in the front door. “Are _you_ British?”

He directed the question toward Amelia, who exchanged a familiar chuckle with her uncle.

“Our family is,” she explained. “My grandparents both grew up in London, but moved to the States when my uncle and mother were kids, and they remained British citizens. I was born in New York, so technically, I’m both?”

“Dual-citizenship,” Max translated. “Her father was American, though he fled the whole scene after this one was born. Must’ve realized what he was signing onto with Lydia, lucky bastard.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Amelia chimed up sarcastically.

“You’re in one piece,” he added lightly.

“If only he’d taken me with him,” she gave a dramatic sigh. “What a life.”

“You’d be a starving artist living in some godforsaken desert town,” Max huffed. “At least you can play trust fund and afford central London rent.”

“Shrug away the emotional neglect, but boy can I buy shiny things,” she rolled her eyes. “Where’s Sherlock? He texted me that there was something he needed me to look at?”

“There was a break in another case,” John explained, stepping out of one of the movers way. “Lestrade told him explicitly to wait until they were done securing the scene, but you know he didn’t listen. Left a few hours ago.”

“Typical,” she hummed, the movers finishing up their work with a large dresser in hand. “I don’t even have enough clothes to fill this.”

Max waved her concern off, mentioning something about her using the furniture money for clothes while his attention drifted to the doorway.

Mrs. Hudson approached with a bright smile, her hands clapped together.

“Isn’t this exciting? I’ve been trying to rent out that flat for ages,” she looked up at Max and held up her hand. “Martha Hudson.”

Max took it gently and gave her knuckles a light kiss.

 _“Maxwell Brenner the Third,”_ he introduced himself. Amelia’s brows shot up. She looked to John who seemed equally as startled at the shift in energy. “It _is_ a pleasure.”

Mrs. Hudson giggled, taking her hand back, holding it over her chest delicately.

“Would you care to join me for some tea? I just put a kettle on, and it seems the movers are all set,” she nodded toward the building and Max nodded eagerly. He followed after her, not bothering to check with the others, his focus solely on the landlady leading the way.

“So that was...”

“Weird, very, very, weird,” John bobbed his head in agreement as they watched the other pair close the door.

“What’s weird?” Sherlock popped up over Amelia shoulder, and for once, she didn’t jump out of herself.

“I think my uncle Max is making a move on Mrs. Hudson,” she replied. “You’re lucky you didn’t see it. The deductions were _unsettling_.”

“Speaking of, John, you know the waiter we were following yesterday?” Sherlock turned to the doctor.

“The one you’re convinced is the murderer?” John clarified dryly. “And we spent all day trailing him with no leads?”

“Precisely that waiter,” Sherlock hummed. “He’s dead.”

“Wait _what_?” Amelia gawked between the men while John grumbled about Sherlock wasting his time. The group moved inside, with Sherlock explaining that it had been the waiter's girlfriend who'd committed the initial murder and was trying to cover her tracks.

John started a kettle for tea, Amelia dropped down on the sofa and pulled out the sketch pad she had stashed underneath, while Sherlock got to work on his laptop.

“I wanted to ask you about this compound,” Sherlock passed the laptop to Amelia before her pencil scratched the surface. “It shouldn’t work unless there was another additive.”

That caught her attention. Leaning forward, she looked at the formula and frowned. At first glance, it seemed he was correct. She scribbled down the digits and ran through the full calculation adding the cancer drug.

Something was definitely off.

“If I remember correctly, I think that is a fungus that relaxes the cardiovascular system,” she passed him the computer and started at the notes on her sketch pad. “I had hoped it would have been helpful for anxiety.”

“There are a number of compounds they could have used to bind the two,” Sherlock noted, continuing to scroll through. “Fortunately, none of the components are particularly easy to get a hand on.”

“So, we find a supplier, and follow the chain,” John reasoned, leaning against the barrier between the kitchen and living room. “Could be easy enough.”

“Except, like Sherlock said, there are any number of components that could fill the equation,” Amelia frowned, biting the end of her pencil in thought. “If we could just get a quick look at a logistics log or shipping manifest for one of the production centers, I think we’d be able to narrow it down.”

“Who would have that?” Sherlock asked, glancing up briefly before typing rapidly at the laptop again.

“The regional execs for sure,” Amelia paused, mentally running through upper management. “My mother, some of the warehouse guys... but they’re all based in Manila, so that’d be a little tricky. We’d need someone local with oversight credentials.”

“Like him?” Sherlock turned the computer again, this time the screen had a photograph of Chemco’s Director of British Development, James Hastings.

Amelia recognized him immediately.

He was a total pig, constantly cheating on his wife when he went to New York for board meetings.

And exactly the person they would need to steal the information they needed.

“Yeah, like him,” Amelia grinned between the men. “Let’s get him fired too, if we can. He’s a total tool.”

“ _Tool_ ,” John repeated in bemusement with his attempt at an American accent, turning to grab the kettle off the stove.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Amelia cleared her throat and tried her hand at a London accent. “ _A right wanker._ ”

“That wasn’t terrible,” John snickered, while Sherlock merely arched a brow, a small smile barely hidden by the laptop screen.

“I think I’ve found our way in,” Sherlock voiced. “His personal assistant, Jessica Reynolds.”

“What, are you going to woo her with that big brain of yours?” Amelia teased, ruffling Sherlock's hair as she got up to grab her own mug of tea.

“No, _you’re_ going to woo her,” he corrected firmly. “You’re more her type.”

“Wait,” Amelia held a hand up, stopping in her tracks. “And who is to suggest I’m her type? I’ve dated plenty of men.”

“The Allison Olson you dated for two years in undergrad,” he hummed, pointedly fixing his hair. The bastard. Of course he’d done a full background check on her relatively fluid sexuality. “And you wouldn’t be _sleeping_ with her. She had a tendency to drink at the pub, bring home strangers, and do her thing. We just need access to her personal computer.”

“That seems ethically wrong,” Amelia pointed out, looking to John for support. “I mean, purposely exploiting someone like that?”

And because John had better self-preservation than to get between Amelia and her morals and Sherlock and a case, focused his attention on picking a tea flavor and fussing with tea cups.

“I mean, you _can_ sleep with her if you’d like, just make sure the front door is left unlocked,” Sherlock shrugged casually before snapping the laptop shut. “According to her social feed she usually hits the Red Hawk pub in the next few hours.”

“That’s across town, isn’t it?” John realized, dropping himself into the conversation, realizing it was against his better judgement when Amelia shot him a glare. 

“Amelia, you should probably change,” Sherlock continued, giving her a once over. "Clean up a bit." 

“What’s wrong with this?” She gestured to the mustard cardigan and black yoga pants she had worn most of the day. “It’s not like I’m going to the club, and I would also like to point out that I still have not agreed to this.”

“Your goal is to _try_ and seduce her a little,” Sherlock emphasized sharply. “Are you even wearing make-up? Your hair looks like it was caught in a fan.”

Amelia’s mouth fell open in offense. She stood up from the sofa, considered her words, but continued to gape at the detective until she finally cleared her throat.

“I will do this for the cancer patients, and not for you,” she huffed, standing up. “I want that noted in the blog post. John?”

“Duly noted, Dr. Brenner,” he gave her a salute before she disappeared down the stairs to her new flat. “A little rude, Sherlock."

“She doesn’t _actually_ mind,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She just likes being dramatic."

“You called her ugly,” John pointed out.

“No, I _suggested_ she freshen up,” he corrected. “Her hair was unkept, and she looked like she’d been moving all day.”

“She _had_ been moving all day, and her hair _always_ looks like that.”

“And would you take her home?” Sherlock challenged, frowning and shaking his head as the question resonated with him. "Actually, _never mind. I don’t want to know the answer._ ”

“Jealous?” John teased.

“ _Hardly_ ,” he waved his hand dismissively. “I’m just not interested in having to listen to my flat mates flop around like animals all night.”

“Right,” John snorted. “And you’ve never spared a single glance? Not once? She’s cute and I have no shame in admitting that.”

“If you date her and break up, Mrs. Hudson will be incredibly disappointed that she lost the rental income,” Sherlock reminded him. “And besides, she isn’t your type.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just that it wouldn’t be a lasting match,” Sherlock answered coolly, typing passively at his keyboard.

“I think you’re jealous,” Johns brows shot up. “And who would be a good match?”

“I don’t know? I haven’t met every sad sack looking to impress American biochemists,” he replied with a long sigh. 

John was about to jump on the "sad sack" comment, when Amelia returned to the living room.

“I feel over-dressed,” Amelia stood in the door way, giving a quick spin. She’d changed into a new shirt and clean jeans, with a brown leather jacket thrown over. She’d organized her auburn hair into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder, and she threw a little eyeliner and dark lipstick on as a final touch.

“That's perfect pub-ware,” John voiced, earning a pointed look from Sherlock "Looks good."

“It’ll do,” the brunette hummed with barely a glance in her direction. “We should get moving if we want to catch her early. Can’t risk anyone else wandering in her path.”

“Of course, I’d hate to ruin our plan of morally grey actions for the evening,” Amelia snorted, stuffing her hands in her pocket.

* * *

“So what’s your biggest fear?” Jessica giggled over her vodka mixer, making eyes at the American woman who’d sat down next to her at the bar top. Amelia started chatting and before long, Jessica Reynolds had been pulled in.

“Oh,” Amelia considered it briefly, taking a sip of her beer. She'd been working on a London accent with Sherlock since moving into Baker Street, and the detective decided it was time to put it to use. “Definitely being buried alive. I might have to have a note in my will that I’m buried with one of those little bells.”

Jessica laughed obnoxiously at that, not that Amelia had really been trying to make a joke.

“Er, what about you?” She tried to ignore the other woman’s hand sliding up her thigh.

“Heights,” Jessica answered. “I’m scared to get too tall.”

Brows raised in acknowledgement, Amelia downed the beer and signaled for another one before her phone buzzed.

**_Get to her apartment._ **

**_SH_ **

Snorting under her breath, she typed back a reply.

**_Screw off._ **

**_AB_ **

The phone buzzed again.

**_I don’t know what that means._ **

**_SH_ **

Another buzz.

**_Your vulgar vocabulary holds no credence here._ **

**_SH_ **

**_Don’t get your pants in a bunch._ **

**_AB_ **

“Who are you texting?” Jessica peered over, nearly toppling over in her chair. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Amelia replied coolly. “He’s been looking for a new hat, I suggested a top hat.”

Jessica started laughing uncontrollably, touching Amelia’s arm and exclaiming multiple times how great she was. Amelia downed her drink, prying the handsy woman off with as charming a smile she could muster.

“How about we take this conversation somewhere a little more private?” Amelia suggested in a low voice. Jessica’s eyes lit up and she flagged down the barkeep to pay her tab.

Amelia flagged down the cab, glancing around the street to try and see where Sherlock had holed up with John, when Jessica stumbled into her chest and started sucking on her bottom lip.

Shocked, Amelia shifted away from the taxi, practically throwing Jessica into the backseat.

Jessica slurred her address to the driver, and when the car began to move, she threw herself at the florist against, practically devouring Amelia’s face.

For the most part, Amelia tried her best to play her role, but her phone buzzed and well,

“-it might be someone from work, one second,” she held up an apologetic hand, answering the incoming call from John.

“ _You’re welcome_ ,” the doctor chuckled through the line. Amelia sighed. “We need her address.”

“Don’t be so _chuffed_ about it,” she grunted back, trying to slowly redirect Jessica’s hand at her waistline.

“Not a bad accent, the vowels are a little flat,” she could hear the grin in his voice and hung up the line before he could add anything else.

Angrily typing the address in a text with a less than polite emoji, Amelia was quickly pulled back into Jessica’s grasp, only saved by the driver announcing that they’d arrived.

Thanking the heavens for the distraction, Amelia offered to pay the cab driver while Jessica disappeared into the quaint townhouse to “change into something more comfortable”.

Amelia just assumed that meant the secretary was going to be naked by the time she got upstairs, and took her time paying the driver.

Dreading the next step in the plan, she started toward the building when another message buzzed her phone.

**_Leave front door unlocked._ **

**_SH_ **

Demanding bastard. She almost was tempted to make him pick the lock, maybe he’d get picked up by the cops. Certainly a night in jail would humble him.

“ _Darling_....” Amelia entered the house, making sure to leave the front door unlocked and found, unsurprisingly, a very naked Jessica sloppily draped over the entrance to her bedroom. “Won’t you join me?”

She tiptoed, stumbled, and caught Amelia by the sleeve of her jacket. Pulling it off and throwing it on a nearby chair, she dragged the reluctant American to her room.

Shoving Amelia back on the bed, Jessica went to attacking her mouth again, her hands exploring, and eventually catching the edge of Amelia T-shirt.

“I think one of us is a bit _over dressed_ ,” Jessica tried to purr, but it came out like confused mush. Still, what she lacked in coherent language, she made up for in sheer strength. With a quick movement, she ripped Amelia’s shirt clean off.

Clad only in her bra and jeans, Amelia stared in awe at what remained of one of her favorite shirts.

_Holy shit._

What had she gotten herself into?

Just as Jessica grinned and moved to make another attack, Amelia’s phone started ringing from the pocket of her jacket.

Jumping up, Jessica pinned her shoulders down and nibbled at her ear.

“ _Stay_...” she whispered through vodka laced breath.

“I’m on call for work,” Amelia lied, her New York accent slipping through slightly. “I have to make sure things are okay.”

She slipped from under the lust crazed woman, and nearly screamed when she saw Sherlock huddled over what she assumed was Jessica’s work laptop. Scurrying for her coat, Amelia covered herself, zipping it up the front.

“This was an awful idea,” Amelia whispered as Jessica spurred her alias from the other room. “She ripped my shirt, Sherlock. Clean off my back.”

“Babyyy, where’d you go?” Amelia heard Jessica stumbling up the hall and jumped to intercept her.

“I’m almost done, I have to finish this call for work,” she pulled her phone out. “Major tech issue that I’ve gotta walk them through.”

Jessica leaned forward and took Amelia’s bottom lip between her teeth. Giving it a quick bite, she giggled and turned back toward the bedroom.

“Hurry up,” she whined.

“You owe me so hard for this,” Amelia grunted, returning to Sherlock and watching over his shoulder.

“I’m solving _your_ problem,” he reminded her.

“I never asked,” she answered

“You wouldn’t have figured it out alone,” he scoffed. “Who’s idea was taking the information from Reynolds?”

“We are still standing in her apartment, and I am still very much in just my bra under this jacket, so don’t call it a success just yet,” Amelia murmured in frustration

“Done,” he pulled out the usb and shut the computer. “Don’t take too long or I’m leaving without you.”

And with that, he was gone.

Fifteen minutes later, Amelia was sprinting out of the building, a bottle of red wine tucked under her arm and a muffed shriek shortly behind.

She caught him by the arm and shoved him into the back seat, eagerly smacking the drivers side urging him to get a move on.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, watching while she stabbed her house key into the wines cork, pulling it free. She took a long swig and shook her head.

“We’re not talking about it,” she murmured.

* * *


	5. Fungi

* * *

_Despite the initial tension regarding Jessica Reynolds, things seem to be progressing well with Amelia’s case. Sherlock was able to pull a number of shipping manifests from the assistant’s computer, each bound for the manufacturing factory in Manila._

_It was fortunate that it confirmed almost every compound Amelia had noted when she stole the data set, at least in the cancer drugs._

_The problem was the secondary product bound into the cancer drugs that caused adverse effects. The details on the manifests were less than helpful…_

* * *

“Psilocybe mushroom components,” Amelia read the computer screen out loud for the third time since Sherlock had passed it to her, annoyance in her tone. “That’s _it_?”

“Magic mushrooms?” John asked, passing her a cup of tea, she immediately set it aside, scrolling through the computer logs further. “Seems straightforward enough.”

“John, there are over 200 different types of Psilocybe spores,” Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, _please_ tell me you have an idea for how we can possibly narrow it down?”

“How many did you use in your research?” The detective asked, reaching for his own tea cup.

“47,” she answered. “Two were almost identical hybrids, so _maybe_ 46.”

“There you go,” he smirked over the rim of his cup. “Narrowed down.”

“You know we’re going to have to get samples, even if we run the equations, some might work but not technically be the component. Not to mention the cancer drugs might be different,” she groaned and set her cup aside, throwing her head back against the sofa.

“Sherlock, it might be time to contact your brother,” John suggested quietly, earning a glare from the brunette.

“You have a brother?” Amelia asked, her head still flung back with her eyes closed. “ _Please_ tell me he’s a reputable drug dealer because it’s going to be a pain in the ass getting these things.”

“Even better, he’s a member of her Majesty’s Royal Government,” Sherlock chimed back. Amelia snorted, remaining still.

“He could also order seizures of the shipments,” John reminded the group coolly, sensing the rising tension between the group.

“Unhelpful if we can’t properly determine the malicious components, John,” Sherlock shot back, picking up on Amelia’s frustration. “The idea is that Chemco’s _random_ samples are unable to be traced, and _random_.”

“Certainly a shipment would contain some variations?” He asked the pair. Amelia threw her arms up hopelessly, and he frowned. “Sherlock, don’t tell me _you’re_ at a loss?”

“Short of breaking into a hospital, stealing their current supply, and testing it against the 46 varieties of mushroom Mia has worked with, this doesn’t lend a more efficient solution,” the detective hummed, drumming his fingers on his chin in thought.

Silence fell over the group, each person thinking through potential solutions.

“Monty!” Amelia shot up, nearly startling John into dropping his tea.

“What on earth-?” The doctor grumbled while Amelia fished out her phone.

“Ruthie’s brother in law, Monty, he’s an, er, _herbal enthusiast_ ,” she explained, tapping into her phone. “I bought a few illicit plants from him when I first moved over. He’s basically got everything you could think of. If not, he’ll know someone who does.”

“Is he in London?”

“Canterbury, lives down the road from Ruthie and her husband,” Amelia got a ping back. “Says we can swing by tomorrow if we’d like. I know offhand, I saw at least a dozen spores in one of his cold storages. I’ll dig up my research list, I can probably narrow down the list from 46 to something more reasonable if I look through what moved to the second stages of trials.”

“And then we go shopping for illicit drugs,” John replied dryly. “And what about the cancer medications?”

Sherlock and Amelia exchanged humored glances. There was certainly something that the doctor was missing.

“What?” John gawked between the pair. “You’re not _actually_ breaking into a hospital, are you?”

“We wouldn’t need much, maybe one or two treatments?” Sherlock asked Amelia, who noddedafter doing a quick calculation in her head.

“The binding components are easy enough to track down over the counter, though we might need a better equipped lab than what you’ve got in the kitchen,” she noted.

“That’s not a problem,” Sherlock waved her off, skimming through the list of components from the shipping logs. “ _Easy_.”

“I don’t like it when you two conspire together. It always leads to some sort of trouble,” John pressed, frown deepening.

“John, _you’re a doctor_ ,” Amelia reminded him excitedly. “Prescribe poor Sherlock Holmes a chemotherapy treatment for the tumor in his ego.”

“No, absolutely not,” John stood up. “That violates so many ethical rules.”

“I mean, we can let innocent, immune compromised patients die,” Amelia shrugged, leaning back into the sofa. “What a shame about the little babies with leukemia. All because my wicked mother wanted a secondmega yacht.”

“What truly is the core of medical ethics Dr. Watson?” Sherlock inquired, slowly closing his laptop, his gaze boring into his friend. “Is it not to protect life?”

John Watson, caught between an American and a hard place, was less than thrilled when he finally, begrudgingly, scribbled his name on a prescription pad and passed it to Sherlock.

“If my license is revoked-,” he threatened, holding it away from Sherlock briefly.

“Will you kill him?” Amelia asked, grabbing her crimson scarf from the back of the sofa and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Because I’d be very interested in seeing _that_.”

“Don’t think you get off that easy,” John turned his attention to Amelia while Sherlock scampered to his coat, mocking Amelia over John’s shoulder with a smirk. “You’re equally responsible for anything that goes wrong.”

“That’s not fair, I’m an innocent bystander to your collusion,” she pouted, catching her navy peacoat when John tossed it at her head.

“Careful John,” Sherlock warned, passing the doctor his jacket, shielding his friend from Amelia’s sad eyes. “Keep her pouting like that and she’ll convince you to clean _her_ hair out of the shower drain.”

“Just _go_ ,” John shoved the detective through the doorway, not bothering to wait for the grumbling Amelia as she pulled her boots on and stumbled her way out the door behind them.

* * *

“And you’re going to be administering the medications at home?” the chemist studied the prescription order, glancing over the paper to John with a quirked brow.

“That’s right,” he answered with a curt nod, his hands stuffed in his pockets to try and stave off the nervous energy that radiated through his core.

“To a Mr. William Holmes?” the chemist looked to Sherlock next to him. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he pulled out his ID and passed it to the woman, flashing a quick smile.

“Did you guys know that Beyonce is pregnant again?” Amelia held up a tabloid to Sherlock. “Oh wait, never mind. Just a rumor.”

“Who is this?” the chemist paused, looking up at Amelia.

“His fiancé,” she replied, setting the magazine aside and looping an arm through Sherlock’s. “Here for moral support. He’s just starting treatment and is nervous as all get out, isn’t that right, love?” For added effect, she snuggled closer, pressing her cheek against his arm.

“I wouldn’t have made it in one piece without her,” he nodded, giving her cheek a quick peck. “Just an absolute blessing.”

“We’re just so lucky to find Dr. Watson,” Amelia continued with a long sigh. “Not a lot of doctor’s are willing to do home treatments within the NHS, you know. And of course I’m completely out of my element with all of it!”

The chemist chuckled empathetically, asking how the pair met as she typed up the order for the supplies. Sherlock and Amelia shot back and forth, exchanging little tidbits about their “relationship” enough to almost convince _John_ it was real.

“The order will be ready tomorrow morning,” the woman smiled at the trio and reached for Amelia’s hand. “I’ll be praying for you both.”

“You’re an angel,” Amelia replied, giving them a squeeze before ushering the group out of the pharmacy with a final wave at the woman.

Back on the street, Amelia slipped a hand into Sherlock’s pocket, pulling out his wallet.

“I did not know your name was _William_ ,” she studied his ID, trying to memorize the details before he snatched it from her. “And you’re only three years older than me? I don’t believe that.”

Sherlock grabbed the wallet and ID out her hands, returning them to his coat pocket with a huff.

“Is there no privacy with you?” he grumbled. “And what’s so surprising about how old I am?”

“I just figured you were older,” she shrugged. “I mean, I’m almost thirty, right? I figured you were like, almost forty or something.”

John sputtered out a laugh.

“That’s spectacular,” he threw an arm around her shoulders. “How old do you think I am?”

“John, in all honesty, I have no idea,” she answered. “Sometimes I’m convinced you’re fifty, other times you have to be my age.”

Sherlock snorted under his breath.

“It’s a fair assessment,” she insisted, frowning apologetically at John. “You get very grumpy in the mornings, and the matching flannel pajamas don’t help very much.”

“They’re _warm_.”

“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” Amelia smiled, patting his arm in a placating tone. “I’m just a terrible judge of age apparently. I should have know how old you actually were with all of the part-time super models you bring by.”

“Mia, you’re digging yourself into a hole you’ll regret for the foreseeable future,” Sherlock warned.

“Shush,” Amelia swatted his arm.

“That reminds me,” John glanced down at his phone. “I have a second date with Ann tonight.”

“Is she the one with the Pomeranian?” Amelia asked hopefully. He shook his head and she sighed. “I liked that one.”

“You liked the dog and I’m very allergic,” John reminded her. “Ann is a barrister.”

“Maybe you should make sacrifices for your relationships, John,” she countered. “Have fun with your boring lawyer date.”

“Ann is the boring one, that’s right,” Sherlock perked up.

“She is not boring,” John insisted, flagging down a taxi.

“We’ll call with an ‘ _emergency_ ’ in a bit,” Amelia promised earnestly. “Get you out of talks about law and order. Blegh.”

“I’m turning my phone off,” he called, slipping into the backseat of the taxi.

“If it wasn’t so cold, I’d be half tempted to follow them,” Amelia mused, continuing down the street with the detective.

“Don’t, they’re seeing that action movie that just came out,” he sighed dramatically. " _Boring_."

“Movies never make sense as an early date,” she noted. “You can’t talk. How do you get to know anything about the other person? They could be a serial killer for all you know.”

“Exactly, hardly an intimate setting,” he shook his head in disappointment. Amelia looked at him in surprise, stifling a laugh. “What?”

“It’s hard to picture you trying to take someone on a date,” she confessed lightly.

“You’re one to talk,” he countered quickly. “You never leave the flat.”

“You literally don’t let me?” she replied with another laugh. “And arguably, I’ve gone at least one more date than you in the last month.”

“Jessica Reynolds does not count,” he shot back.

“She has the remnants of my favorite shirt on her bedroom floor,” Amelia shivered at the memory. “She counts. John’s been on half a dozen dates since then, yet I’m fairly certain I heard you making love to your calculator the other night.”

“Why did I allow you to move into my building?” Sherlock kept his focus forward. “And I’d be a wonderful date, assuming I knew who i was meeting and could plan accordingly.”

“You’d stalk your date for ideas,” Amelia bit back a smirk. “It’d almost be endearing if it wasn’t super illegal.”

“I do not have to _stalk_ someone to take them on a decent date,” he insisted. “What about you? What would you do aside from a bar?”

“First of all, I would never take someone to a bar on a first date,” she held a hand up, stopping in front of him. “It’s tacky. Would you want to date someone tacky?”

“Ok, where would you take me?” he offered, folding his arms across his chest. Amelia considered his challenge, pulling out her cell phone and tapping at the screen. Grinning at the device, she looked up at him.

“I get a _little_ leeway because I’m not from here,” she warned, flagging down a passing cab.

“What are you doing?” he watched her chat with the driver, and look up at him expectantly.

“I’m taking you on a date,” she answered. “Get in Mr. Holmes, and prepare to be wooed.”

* * *

The Barbican Conservatory wasn’t very busy at midday in the middle of the week, so they were able to secure entrance and tour around the large space without too much interruption from other guests.

“There are over 1,500 different plants in 23,000 cubic square feet of space,” Amelia tucked her hands behind her back. “And the ponds feature koi and carp from Japan and America respectively.”

“Did you just read the pamphlet?” Sherlock asked, looking over the informational packet. “Because you quoted the first paragraph verbatim.”

“It’s because I’m well versed in what I sought out,” she answered with a grin. “Look, _flowers_.”

She pulled him toward a large selection of tropical flora, naming the species as they moved through in both their common names and scientific ones.

“This one is particularly rare,” she gestured to a bright red flower, the pamphlet long discarded in her coat pocket. Sherlock listened intently, occasionally chiming in his own facts about the flora that surrounded them. He could tell she was pleasantly surprised at his own knowledge on some of the more obscure plants.

“Waitwaitwait,” Amelia pulled him by the wrist toward a large swath of sunflowers. “They’re taller than you, that’s so cool!”

“Does that make them extra haughty?” he retorted, letting her shove him in front of the flowers. She snapped a picture while he continued to quip, ignoring his comments a moment while she saved it to her phone. “Do not show that to anyone.”

“I would never,” she promised. “It’s a good picture, though.” She held her phone up, and sure enough, she’d captured a flattering angle while he’d been laughing.

“I’m not haughty,” he quickly stated.

“You know that isn’t their only meaning,” she hummed, tucking the phone away. “They also mean strength, happiness, confidence… I think they sum you up perfectly.”

“ _Happiness_?”

“Oh that’s right, you were happy once and it was terrible,” she replied coyly. “How could I have forgotten? Happiness can mean bringing it to _others_ as well, Sherlock.”

She turned to look at some lilacs, absently chatting while he stood frozen in place, the words running on repeat in the front of his mind.

_Who did he make happy?_

* * *

Amelia had a mouth full of falafel when Sherlock decided on where he was going to take her next.

“Mmwha mwean?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion. “Dwon’t swteal mwwy dawte!”

“You did an adequate job,” he answered. “But I still think I’m the superior date planner.”

She swallowed her food, eyeing distrustfully.

“I’m only interested if it’s a very old cemetery,” she replied, stealing one of his chips. “And it better be nighttime and there had better be ghosts.”

“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Sherlock clarified sharply.

“Consider this date over,” she stood up from the public bench they’d settled on. “It’s not me, it’s definitely you.”

“Mia, come back,” he called, but she continued down the road, night starting to swallow the city. “ _They’re theoretically impossible._ ”

* * *

Amelia had to admit (though never out loud), Sherlock Holmes did know a thing or two about impressing a date (despite his disbelief in ghosts).

He purchased her a pink peony, her favorite flower, from a street vendor.

Next, they went to the aquarium, where they wandered away from the main tour and Sherlock gave his own version of the tour, naming the fish and telling her random facts about their origins. Together, they came up with complex names and origin stories for all of the fish.

“The puffer fish is obviously fed up with the whale shark’s nonsense,” Amelia laughed, pointing out the fish blowing up as the white shark passed it in the tank. “He’s probably having an affair with the puffer fish’s wife.”

“I don’t know, the whale shark was eyeing the sea turtle…” Sherlock mused, watching the mesmerizing scene next to her.

Every once in a while, Amelia would steal a look at him. The way the light reflected around them, and how it flickered through his blue eyes- should almost wished she had a paint pallet to try and capture the almost perfect cerulean color.

They left the aquarium chuckling about an octopus that had escaped during a demonstration, night having finally swept over the city.

“Ok,” she relented. “You win this round.”

“I’m not done yet,” he pulled his phone out and glanced up. “We have a final stop.”

“What else could you have planned on such short notice?” she asked, letting him grab her hand and pull her along.

“I told you, I know what I’m doing,” he teased, stopping after a few blocks, looking up at the glowing carriages of the London Eye. “It’s not a cemetery.”

“Might be better,” Amelia admitted.

And it was.

Amelia had never experienced anything so spectacular in her life. The lights over the Thames and the London skyline were unlike anything she’d seen before. The old city had a different energy to it compared to New York, and from the top of the famous ferris wheel, she could see it all.

“I can’t believe we live in the same city as all of this,” she gestured below them. “It doesn’t seem real.”

“It looks like stars,” he agreed, looking over the edge.

“And the reflection on the river?” Amelia continued to gush in excitement, practically jumping around the edges of the capsule as they moved through the sky.

It was over far too quickly, though Amelia knew they needed to get back. John was probably long home from _his_ date.

“You win,” she sighed. “You definitely win, but only for today.”

“That means there’s a second date?” he smirked, offering her his arm as they walk. She took it, falling in step while they tried to track down a taxi.

Amelia knew he was teasing. It was more of an outing between friends, a means to prove a point with no real intimate feelings involved. A challenge.

She repeated this to herself as she stared at the peony in her hands on the taxi ride home. Or when Sherlock made a quiet quip about extra marital whale shark affairs.

He had to prove his point, and he did. She was sufficiently surprised, and very much felt conflicted about it.

When they returned, Amelia cut into the conversation before John could ask where they’d been. He told her all about his date, and that while Ann was very nice, there probably wasn’t a third date in their future.

“Because she’s boring?” Sherlock joked, pulling out his laptop and checking his email.

“We have different interests,” John clarified sharply. “I think I’m going to take a break from dating for a bit. What about you two? What did you do all day?” His eyes fell on the peony in Amelia’s hand, and she froze, not sure how to respond.

“We went on a date,” Sherlock spoke up confidently from his perch, eyeing John and waiting for a reaction.

“You… on a date?” he looked between the pair. “Both of you? _Together_?”

Admittedly, it was a bit fun watching their friend process the information. Amelia just braced herself for when Sherlock clarified their challenge with one another.

“Yep,” he answered, popping the “p”. “It was a lovely day, wasn’t it Mia?”

Dazed, Amelia choked out an affirmative, her head still catching up with the fact there hadn’t been any specifications as to the motivation behind everything.

“A _long_ day,” she forced out a yawn. “I’m going to put this in some water and head to bed. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, don’t forget. I have our train tickets already, but one of you needs to get the chemotherapy into the fridge before we go.”

Both men said goodnight and she slipped downstairs to her apartment, sneaking a final glance over her shoulder, in case he was going to add anything else to the date conversation.

“A date?” John waited until Amelia was out of earshot. “You never mentioned being interested like that. In fact, you mocked me.”

“We were merely getting to know one another,” he shrugged. “Initially we were trying to prove a point, but it turned into an enjoyable afternoon. Though, I wouldn’t get too excited about it, John.”

“And why not?” John asked. “She’s been here for two months now, you two get along in your weird, mad scientist way, it could be a good match.”

“I’m far too busy to have time for romantic partners,” Sherlock shot the suggestion down. He stilled, his hands resting on the keys of his laptop. “And she seemed odd just now, didn’t she?”

“No more than usual,” John replied. “Worried she didn’t enjoy herself? You got her a flower, I’m sure she was enthralled.”

“A peony,” Sherlock corrected quietly. “She likes peonies. They’re in the perfume she wears.”

“Maybe she’s just deep in denial, much like yourself, and needed to sleep to get her head straight?” John snorted, standing up from his chair. “Speaking of, don’t stay up too late.”

Sherlock waved him off, staring down at his computer and re-reading the same sentence over and over. He couldn’t focus on any of his cases right now, his head was all over the place.

Grabbing his violin, he plucked away at the strings, trying to find a sound for the chaos in his head.

Meanwhile, laying in bed with her eyes closed, listening to the soft sounds, Amelia decided she had more important things to think about besides date challenges and eccentric roommates.

Things like corrupt CEOs and fungi.

* * *


	6. Canterbury

* * *

_I've met a few characters since moving in with Sherlock, though none were actual drug-dealers. Amelia insisted that Montgomery Davies was an overly passionate fan of botany, rather than a malicious drug peddler. I wasn't convinced until I met him. I'd never seen anything like his house and greenhouse. It was like stepping into the rain forest, without all of the venomous creatures wandering around. All hidden away in an unassuming little house in Canterbury, Kent._

* * *

“I think I’ve got it down to seven main lineages,” Amelia passed Sherlock and John neatly bound packets of paper containing her previous research under Chemco. “It was a little odd that this was the direction they ended up going with. I spent the least amount of time on this project than I did with some of the more exotic flowers.”

“When did you have time to make these?” John asked, impressed with the organized paperwork. She’d retyped the research to make it easier to understand to a layperson, putting subcategories and noting the various effects of each spore.

“I had a little extra time before bed,” she explained with a small smile. The truth was, she’d been up all night, overthinking every life choice she’d made since leaving her Brooklyn apartment all those months ago.

“These are common varieties,” Sherlock noted, flipping through the pages. “If he had a minimum of 12, I’d be willing to wager he will have these.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Amelia nodded, tucking her own packet back into her bag.

While Sherlock and John bounced a few ideas off of one another, Amelia leaned back in the seat and let her eyes rest. All morning, she felt like she’d been on edge. Not just from the lack of sleep, but the fact they were wandering so far from Baker Street.

Since the shop was destroyed, Baker Street had become a safe haven for her, an impenetrable castle where she’d convinced herself she was safe. But now that she was a considerable distance from the flat, the fear and hesitation she’d bottled up over the last two months was coming to turn.

“...Right, Mia?” John’s voice broke Amelia’s anxious meditation.

“I’m sorry, just dozed off,” she blinked her eyes open.

“Canterbury,” he repeated. “That’s where the University of Kent is located?”

“Mhm,” she replied. “Ruthie and her husband work in the physics department. It’s how they met.”

“And the younger brother is a drug dealer,” Sherlock scoffed.

“He’s closer to a scientist than a drug dealer,” Amelia insisted. “You’ll see. His set up is... impressive to say the least.”

The train intercom buzzed that they were arriving in Canterbury, and the trio pulled on jackets and stashed their paperwork in pockets.

It’s been some time since Amelia had visited the city, having only briefly visited after making the decision to move to London shortly after arriving in the country. She’d forgotten how much smaller it was compared to the sprawling metropolitan area.

It wasn’t too difficult tracking down a taxi, and Amelia remained quiet the entire ride, that anxious, eerie, feeling lingering in her stomach. She felt like she was being hyper alert, all of her senses tuned to peak levels, waiting and almost expecting something to go wrong.

Thankfully, arriving at Monty’s house came with little fanfare. Sherlock paid the driver and Amelia made her way to the front door, giving it a few quick taps with her knuckles.

There was a crash on the other side of the door, footfalls, a thud, and a yelp of pain before the door was flung open, revealing an incredibly disheveled Monty Davies.

“Amelia!” He threw on a wide smile, opening his arms and pulling her into a hug. “It’s been too long, we missed you at Tommy’s birthday last month.”

She apologized profusely for having missed her cousin’s sons first birthday, remaining vague about her reasons. Ruthie had understood immediately when Amelia to cancel, though she doubted the information was passed to the brother in law.

Sherlock and John followed closely behind Amelia, studying the house with intrigue. The place was a jungle on the inside. Plants of every species were draped through the rafters and around support beams. Easily there was close to a hundred different plants in just foyer, the number increasing the deeper they moved into the house.

“I had to double check if I had the right spores,” Monty was explaining, leading the group to a massive, attached greenhouse in the back. “But I think you’ll be pretty happy with what I found. Three of the batches are already cultivated and ready to go, and the other four are ready to be germinated.”

The greenhouse reminded Amelia of the conservatory she and Sherlock had explored the day before, the memory adding to the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had no time or interest in unwrapping whatever that was, especially now that they were so close to getting answers and exposing Chemco.

“I can give you enough to replicate the lines,” Monty pulled out three large plastic bins from under a table. “And like I said, the other spores are ready to go.”

John was poking at a marijuana plant at the corner of the room, while Sherlock stood back, listening to the exchange passively, letting Amelia take the lead for once.

“This should be perfect,” Amelia fished her wallet out and slipped him some bills. He plucked a number of mushrooms from each bin, labeled the bags and tucked them in a lunch bag with the labeled spore syringes.

“You know what you need to get them going, right?” He asked, earning a laugh from the American. “Just wanted to be sure. I know you’ll take good care of my babies.”

“They’re in good hands,” Amelia assured him, holding the bag a little closer to her chest for good measure. “Thank you so much Monty.”

“You stopping by Ruthie and Frank’s place?” He asked on their way out of the house. “I think they’re home today.”

“Ah,” Amelia looked to John and Sherlock. “Probably not. Sherlock’s got a case back in London and we’ve gotta get these home safe. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, could we keep this visit between us.”

“Right on, no problem, you know I can keep a secret,” he leaned in the doorway, giving her a quick wink. “Be safe. Send me some pictures when they start blooming.”

“I always do,” she gave him a final wave, turning to John and Sherlock, her gaze downward in thought as they walked.

“Why don’t you stop at your cousins?” John asked after a few minutes of silence.

Amelia didn’t have a good reason, aside from that feeling in her chest. She just wanted to get back home, safe and sound in her little basement apartment where she knew no one could bother her.

Logically, she knew she was equally as safe with both John and Sherlock k with her in public, but there was something about that day that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“We’re being followed,” Sherlock murmured, tucking Amelia under his arm and guiding the group in a different direction toward town.

Amelia felt her heart rate pick up, her worst fear having come to light so quickly. She clutched onto her lunch bag tighter, the fabric handle digging into her fingers as the men moved to lose whoever was tailing them.

“John, let’s split up, Amelia and I will meet you at the station,” Sherlock instructed tersely, glancing over a corner. John nodded and depart the opposite direction. “If I tell you y I do something, I need you to listen.”

Amelia just muttered her agreement, trying to control her breathing and get ahold of herself. Why was this all coming up now? She’d been out of the shop for months, but she felt like she was staring down the barrel of the pistol for the first time again.

They were about to move when a cell phone started ringing past their hiding spot. A gruff voice answered, and Amelia felt her blood chill at the familiar sound. She prayed and hoped that it was just Sherlock being overly cautious, but when the man stepped into their line of sight, Amelia could have vomited from the stress.

It was the same man who had held her at gun point in the flower shop.

“How did he know we’d be here?” Sherlock murmured under his breath, his body blocking Amelia in case the man glanced over. They waited until the man was out of sight before darting down some back alleys, hurrying for the train back to London.

The entire time, Amelia felt like she was in a haze. Her body was moving automatically, following wherever her friend led her without any argument. It was like she was watching herself from above, going through the motions, detached from reality, yet overwhelmed by the experience.

“...bugged phone?” Sherlock looked to her expectantly, pulling her out of the way of a hurried mother with a stroller.

“What?” She frowned, not quite hearing him over the buzzing of the crowd around them.

Was the man there? Did he have his gun trained on them in that very moment? What if John or Sherlock got hurt because she’d dragged them into this stupid mess? Where was John?

She should have left well enough alone from the get go. Someone would have caught onto her mother, maybe another whistle blower would have come forward.

“Amelia!” Sherlock had pulled her to the side, his hands on her shoulders. “You need to focus.”

“I recognized one of the men from the flower shop fire,” John approached them from behind, setting a calming hand on Amelia's shoulder when she jumped at his voice. He flashed her a reassuring smile, before his expression shifted to seriousness when he spoke with Sherlock.

It was amazing how he could be so intense, yet kind enough to spare Amelia a shred of comfort.

“I thought so,” Sherlock murmured, glancing around the train station. “Did you lure him here?”

“He's out front, on his mobile,” the doctor confirmed. “I texted Lestrade and he's sending a local constable to meet us.”

“That doesn't give us a lot of time,” the detective tutted. He turned to Amelia, giving her a once over. “Go sit on that bench. Do not move until John or myself retrieves you.”

In any other circumstance, she would have protested the order. Instead, she nodded sheepishly, trudging over to the worn bench and seating herself down obediently, his fingers digging even deeper into the fabric of the lunch bag.

“Men's room,” Sherlock merely noted to John, and they disappeared around the corner, out of sight.

Amelia felt that panic surge again the moment her friends were out of sight. The man was likely armed. Though, she reminded herself, John and Sherlock weren't exactly intimidated by armed goons. They both were more than capable of handling themselves.

John was a soldier, after all. Sherlock was... Sherlock. They'd be fine.

She tried humming under her breath, counting the cracks in the bricks below her feet, ignoring the violent images that flashed through her mind- John with a bullet through his head, Sherlock bleeding out next to a urinal-

“Ah, sorry!” A passing man with a large bouquet of flowers tripped over Amelia's feet. The bouquet fell into her lap and she did her best not to hyperventilate from the sheer surprise of it all.

“Accidents happen,” she gathered the flowers up, quickly taking a note of the arrangement. “Good news, I hope?”

“It's m' wife's birthday,” he replied, double checking the bouquet was still in good shape. “But I also got a promotion at work.”

“Congratulations,” she gave him a genuine smile before he slipped into the passing crowd.

Amelia was dusting pollen and petals off of her lap when her roommates returned from their excursion.

“Stubborn bastard,” John grunted, flexing his hand. Sherlock huffed his agreement, wiping a few specks of blood off of his cheek.

“Any luck?” Amelia tried to keep her tone upbeat, positive, the stark opposite from what she felt inside.

“He won't tell us anything,” Sherlock threw his hands into his pockets, glaring off toward the approaching train to London. “The constable got here faster than anticipated. He'll be transferred to thee Yard by tomorrow morning.”

“I should have gone with you that day,” John muttered, his tone laced in disappointment.

“The shop caught fire before we could have done anything,” Sherlock pointed out, pulling Amelia up by the sleeve of her coat. She followed wordlessly, her mind running over their conversation, trying to process everything as best she could.

“Wait,” She closed her eyes, repeating John's comment in her head. “How did you know to come back?”

The train pulled to a stop at the platform. Sherlock steered her forward, making sure she was safely seated in one of the carriages before considering her question.

“It was pretty obvious they weren't visiting for the roses,” he shrugged, leaning against the window.

“The pistol was a big giveaway,” John added. “Sherlock insisted he had the situation under control, that I should just proceed with the flowers back to Baker Street, but I think we could have caught one of the men.”

“You just passed them and decided they were going to cause trouble?” Amelia stared between the pair.

“One of them did say your name,” John looked to Sherlock, who nodded. John reached into his coat for his wallet, fishing out a worn piece of paper- one of Amelia's business cards.

“And you came back,” she frowned, looking down at her lap. She knew she wasn't anything special, especially at that point. They'd met for a few moments, shared a quick story, and left. No different than any other retail transaction, but they'd come back.

“Of course,” Sherlock snorted. “They were up to nefarious activities, and I couldn't help myself.”

“He means,” John translated with another soothing smile. “You were in trouble. We couldn't very well have left you on your own.”

“Regardless,” she loosened her grip on the bag slightly. “I'm glad you came back.”

And she sincerely meant it.

* * *

“Back so soon?” Mrs. Hudson greeted the group in the entry-way, stepping aside while they shuffled in from the chill outside. “I thought you would visit your cousin. Maxwell mentioned Ruth was disappointed you didn't stop by while you were in town.”

John jumped in, explaining they were too tired from the journey, and just wanted to get home to rest.

“I would believe it,” Mrs. Hudson placed the back of her hand to Amelia's forehead. “Dear, are you feeling well? You're absolutely flushed.”

Sherlock snatched the bag out of her hand, moving toward the stairs.

“I'm okay,” she navigated out of the concerned landlady's touch. “Just exhausted. We had an early morning.”

“John, be a darling and check her temperature,” Mrs. Hudson ordered, the doctor relenting, sending Amelia a knowing smirk.

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson. She's in good hands,” he assured her before they hurried into the living area, closing the door behind them for a bit of privacy.

Sherlock was examining the baggies of mushrooms, holding them up to the lamp in the corner of the room.

“Ideally, we shouldn't need much for a reaction,” he nodded, confident in his decision. “I'll call Molly Hooper and see if we can use the lab this weekend.”

“ _Mia_ ,” John felt the American's forehead. “You're burning up.”

“Ah,” she pulled her red scarf off, tossing it in a bundle next to her. “I'm fine.”

He wasn't convinced, disappearing briefly and returning with his bag of medical supplies.

“John, seriously,” Amelia dodged the stethoscope. “I'm just exhausted. I barely slept last night.”

“Which weakens your immune system,” he held her shoulder down, keeping her in place on the sofa while he listened. “Your heart rate is out of control.”

Sherlock was watching in amusement while John did his best to restrain his fussy patient.

“Under the tongue,” John ordered, slipping the thermometer into Amelia's mouth.

“ _'m hine_ ,” she repeated. He shushed her, plucking the small object out and shaking his head.

“39 degrees,” he announced. “Into bed with you. I'll run to the store for supplies. Sherlock, get her some fluids while I'm gone.”

“I feel fine,” she whined, looking like a child when John pulled her up by the arm and shoved her toward the basement.

“So help me, Amelia, I will lock you in that room,” he snapped, earning a defeated whine from her. Trudging down the stairs, she did, admittedly, feel a bit out of sorts.

Her room was surprisingly cold when she entered. Shaking off a shiver, she changed into her winter pajamas, and bundled under her blankets, fretting to try and warm the space a little more.

Hadn't Mrs. Hudson turned on the heat?

She supposed she could have started a fire, but now that she was in bed, didn't relish the idea of trudging back up the stairs to fetch some kindling. Her head did hurt. More so than it had upstairs.

She closed her eyes, trying to fight off the waves of pain that swept through her body.

Maybe, possibly, John was right, and she'd caught something on the train. Though, she'd never been incredibly susceptible to getting sick... She let her mind drift... slipping into a peaceful slumber...

“Why haven't you started a fire?” Sherlock demanded, throwing the door to her flat open with a pair of water bottles tucked under his arms.

“It's fine,” she mumbled, irritated at his abrupt entrance interrupting her sleep.

“It's freezing in here, and I can't have another dead body turn up at Baker Street,” he set the bottles next to her bed and left the room to track down some firewood. When he returned, John peeked in over his shoulder, wrapped in his coat.

“You behave,” he warned Amelia, who just sighed, and turned to Sherlock. “You be nice.”

“I'm _always_ nice.”

“John, don't leave me with him,” Amelia whined when the detective started fussing with the unused fireplace. “He'll smother me for my fortune.”

“It'd only be beneficial if we were married,” Sherlock pointed out, kicking aside a dead rat that fell from the floo pipe above him.

“John, he's going to try and marry me,” Amelia cried, genuine panic in her eyes. The doctor laughed, promising to be back soon.

“First of all, the marriage wouldn't be valid, you're in no state to sign a contract,” he added, stacking some wood and lighting the kindling under it.

“I think you'd trick the clerk,” she mumbled, resting her head back on the pillow. “Flash those unfair cerulean eyes. Make that dumb face you make when you don't get your way.”

“As if you're one to talk,” he rolled his eyes, glancing to the bed where she was bundled under a thin blanket. “You pout and get your way all the time. We'd be annulled before we left the office.”

“I'm an adult, I don't pout,” she insisted with a small shiver. Sherlock dug through her linen closet, locating another throw blanket.

“Do you have anything for cold weather?” he asked impatiently. It was miracle this woman managed to get herself dressed in the mornings sometimes.

“Ordered blankets yesterday,” she supplied, scrunching her face. “Always works out that way, huh? The fire feels nice.”

He huffed under his breath, returning back upstairs and grabbing his own comforter and returning, throwing it over her.

“I'm going to get my illness all over it,” she whispered scandalously. “You can't get sick. The household would collapse. Madness. Chaos.”

As she protested, she snuggled deeper into the comforter, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“It smells like you,” she mumbled, her head lolling to the side, eyes shut.

“I'll wake you when John gets back,” Sherlock promised, ignoring whatever feeling that comment had arose in his chest.

When no response came, he stepped out of the room to gather up his laptop and books, setting up in her bright yellow armchair next to the fireplace.

There was no way he was leaving Amelia Brenner unattended with an open flame for longer than a few minutes.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there might be a small hiatus between this chapter and the next (or possibly the next and the one after that, if I can hammer out a little more tonight).   
> I'm wrapping up some exams and taking the LSAT on October 7th, with my birthday falling on the 10th, so I'll be a bit busy next week and won't be able to update as consistently! 
> 
> But do not fret! I will be back!


	7. Azalea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Continued mention of illicit drugs, and unintentional drug use.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

* * *

_They say doctors are the worst patients, and now I'm going to include pharmacists under that criteria as well._

* * *

“I’m not going to the hospital,” Amelia sputtered, her skin flushing while she heaved what little contents she had left in her stomach.

“Your heart rate is out of control,” John threw his stethoscope around his neck, irritation clear while he repeated his argument again. “You need IV fluids, supportive care, and god forbid, a team ready to resuscitate you!”

“Stop yelling at me!” Amelia wiped at her mouth with her pajama sleeve. “Unless I am unconscious and have no choice, I don’t consent. I refuse. I don’t trust hospitals, they’re sterile and tend to attract people like my mother into their politics.”

“It’s not a for profit system,” John continued.

“Say that to your government,” she gagged again, another slurry of vomit pouring into the bucket.

“Your fever hasn’t gone down,” he added, running a hand through his hair nervously. Things weren’t ideal for Amelia, and given the state of near delirium she was in, he couldn’t convince her that the hospital was her best option.

“I’ll take an ice bath,” she murmured, her head dipping slightly. She was converted in sweat, shaking, and far too dehydrated for John’s liking.

“Here,” Sherlock slipped back into Amelia’s flat, handing him a small vial.

“What is this?” John examined the liquid to the light.

“Anti-nausea medication,” he gave Amelia a quick smile. “I’d suggest you administer it quickly.”

Amelia readily held out her arm, and John gave her the injection. It took a few minutes, but before she could ask when it’s going into affect, she dropped forward, asleep.

“Problem solved,” Sherlock plucked the bucket out of Amelia’s lap and scooped her up bridal style. “An ambulance is on its way.”

“What did you do?” John checked her pulse, still thrumming at a rapid rate.

“A _very_ mild sedative,” Sherlock explained. “She was close to collapsing anyway, this just gave her an extra incentive.”

“And if she doesn’t wake up?”

“Then you’re not a very good doctor then, are you?” The detective shot back. “There are socks in the top drawer, could you help me get them on her feet?”

“Christ Sherlock,” John huffed, fishing out a pair of solid orange socks. “I thought she’d died.”

“She’ll be fine, it’s not stronger than a lid of cold medicine,” he rolled his eyes. “She’s just too damned stubborn to realize how stupid she’s being.”

John didn’t have an argument against that. He just sighed and slipped the socks off her dangling feet.

“Medics are here,” he looked over through the small window at the flashing lights.

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Hudson fretted in the hall, holding the door open for Sherlock. “I’ll be up as soon as I can! I’ll make sure to let her family know.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson,” John replied when Sherlock didn’t bother answering.

* * *

After Amelia had been admitted to a private unit, hooked up to fluids, and John was satisfied, the men settled into the two visitors chairs set up in her room.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” Sherlock hopped up, unable to sit still for very long. He paced the room, stopping in front of the large window over looking the neighborhood. “She’s fine all day, a little nervous, and then as soon as we reach Baker Street, she’s ill?”

“She could have picked something up when you two went on your outing,” John was watching the monitor tracking her vitals with unease. Her heart rate had gone down minutely, but he reasoned that had to do with her sleeping.

“ _Not a sneeze_ , John,” Sherlock frowned, his hands tucked behind his back. “We see the same man who burned down her shop, and she comes home severely ill.”

“I don’t know Sherlock, maybe someone _poisoned_ her when we weren’t looking,” John threw a hand up, trying to focus on the more serious situation at hand.

Sherlock frowned, watching Amelia fuss around on the hospital bed, rolling on her side facing John, before her eyes opened.

“Hospital?” She asked groggily.

“We didn’t have much of a choice,” John reached for her hand and gave it a small squeeze. “Get some sleep. We’re not going anywhere.”

She hummed in contentment at the promise, closing her eyes, and sinking back into the covers.

“ _Think_ John,” Sherlock returned to the seat, his fingers tapping on one another, steepled in front of him. He closed his eyes, walking through every aspect of that day. He was convinced this was some kind of sabotage, even if John was skeptical.

Monty’s house?

A brief hug, and she only touched the bag, and he and John would have been exposed as he had taken the bag after returning to Baker Street.

No food or drink consumed.

The return to the train station, she never left his sight until-

They’d returned after questioning the man and she was talking to _someone_ , a man with a bundle of flowers spilled over in her lap.

The hospital room transformed into the train station, an exact replica of how Sherlock had remembered it upon returning to the bench with John.

“That’s a lot of pollen for a few flowers, isn’t it, Sherlock?” Amelia’s voice chimed from next to him. She looked healthier, a benefit of her being a figment of his imagination, but she still made _that face_ she made when Sherlock was being slow on catching onto something.

He froze the memory, walking up to the memory Amelia on the bench.

“Mostly roses and Queen Anne’s lace,” he noted, glancing down at the bright orange pollen that coated Amelia’s lap. Her hand was frozen midair, about to swat the pollen off of her dark jeans. “Not heavy pollinators.”

“You _have_ learned a few things,” _Mind-Palace_ Amelia beamed back at him, tilting her head to the side to get a better view of the scene. “Looks like I’m about to make a big mess of it... I wonder... what does this pollen remind you of?”

He blinked, the fabric lunch bag Monty had given them appearing in his hand. He slowly opened the bag, and looked at the spores in the four syringes.

“Why are they in syringes, Sherlock?” Amelia quizzed him, the Canterbury train station shifting into the Baker Street flat.

She circled him, a knowing smile on her face while he considered her question.

“To keep the spores contained and uncontaminated, it’s a gel like substance,” he recited, recalling the books she’d forced him to read through.

“And if I were to take a fully grown mushroom-,” a toadstool mushroom appeared in her hand. She held it near Sherlock’s face and shook it. “-what happens?”

“The spores go everywhere,” he realized. “ _Like pollen._ ”

“And why couldn’t I finish the research before leaving Chemco?”

“You couldn’t figure out how to properly bind the psilocybin elements to the chemotherapy drugs without activating the psychedelic properties. They wanted the physical effects without the obvious hallucinogenics.”

“I know you can do the math in this pretty head of yours,” she turned to the desk and scribbled down the binding agents chemical equation, and a few of the equations from the mushrooms she’d researched.

“Which one works?” She asked, and he picked the proper strain. “I could never figure out how to add it to the therapies _because it couldn’t be mixed it_. They intend to make it _airborne_ , Sherlock. We were looking at the wrong angles.”

“Airborne?” He ran through the calculations. “Of course...”

“They add it to supply boxes, some nurses get it on their hands, other don’t... cancer patients have very weak immune systems, so small doses would be used.”

“They wouldn’t hurt the otherwise healthy workers,” he finished the thought.

“But if I was exposed, and I’m ill?” She tried, an arched brow.

“You received a concentrated dose,” he snapped back to the hospital room, voicing the thought outlaid, nearly scaring the life out of John.

“What is it?” John folded his newspaper in his lap, pausing to get control of his heart rate at the sudden interruption after hours of silence from the detective.

“ _Spores_ ,” Sherlock exclaimed, standing up. “I need to run to Baker Street. Can you call Molly and see if she can get the lab set up?”

“Sherlock, there’s really no time-,”

“John, the adverse drugs we’ve been trying to figure out this entire time,” Sherlock turned to face Amelia. “ _That’s_ what’s in her system.”

“Someone... tried to poison her?” John was a little bemused by the concept, though he knew that it did raise the urgency of their reaction considerably. “Remind me, was it guarantee death or just symptomatic?”

“It depends on the dose and patient,” Sherlock replied in a low voice. “I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

Sherlock felt so foolish for not having considered it sooner.

The spores with the biding agent would cause significant distress within the human body. The chemotherapy had nothing to do with it, aside from signifying the control group.

Most blood tests, urine panels, and also a tests wouldn’t pick up on mushrooms, as they would be metabolized too quickly. Hair samples would contain the molecule that causes the psychedelic response, but if that’s removed and the fungus is turned more malicious, there wouldn’t be a test at present that would detect an abnormality.

Unless, it tested for the specific spore she was exposed to.

“Bloody spores,” he muttered, switching slides and peering through the microscope. “It was so obvious.”

The weakened immune systems of cancer patients would more readily take the hit, whereas a healthy person, such as a nurse, would be unaffected.

That meant, unfortunately, that whatever Amelia had been dosed with was something far stronger than what Chemco would have had planned. Someone was trying to get rid of her.

He reached for a new slide, his hand nearly catching a full cup of coffee next to him.

That hadn’t been there before, he frowned, lifting a small note tape to the surface:

_Hang in there! - Molly_

She must have slipped in when he was focused on the microscopic spores. Shrugging, he took a large sip and continued his work, texting John updates as he eliminated a few of the samples.

“If you keep furrowing your eyebrows like that, you’re going to get wrinkles,” Amelia’s voice chided playfully. “How many times have I told you that? You’re going to look like a Klingon with all of that frowning and pouting.”

“I’m an adult, I don’t pout,” he countered, reciting back the words she’d used against him previously. He glanced up and Amelia was smiling at him from the end of the lab table, her head propped up between her hands.

“That’d be far more clever if I was actually here,” she pointed out, still smirking. “I wonder why you’re hallucinating me and not John? Is it because you’re _worried_?” She asked the question in a sing-song voice, moving around the table to look over his shoulder at the samples.

“I’m _not_ hallucinating,” he countered, returning his attention to the microscope. “I must have gone into my mind palace again.”

Amelia snorted, examining the coffee cup, her hands folded behind her back.

“Did you _see_ Molly drop this off?” she asked casually. “I mean, someone’s clearly trying to kill me. Wouldn’t you be the logical next step?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly John cut in.

“She isn’t wrong, Sherlock,” he sighed. “You really need to be more careful, I don’t know if I could handle both of my friends dying on me today.”

“Sherlock, goodness, we’re going to leave poor John all alone because you’re being careless,” Amelia shook her head in disappointment.

“John, I know you’re not here, I was just texting-,” his hand swatted around him, and he jolted awake, his hand hitting the device next to him. “ _Shit_.”

“Language,” Amelia warned, reappearing next to him. “Surprise, I’m still here. I guess I’m just the personification of your consciousness currently. I wonder what that means? Regardless, you’ve definitely lost a few hours. You should probably check in on John and the real me, though be careful with those long legs- you’ve gotten a pretty hefty dose of something and you’re going to be off balance.”

Sherlock, ignoring the hallucination, jumped up and nearly toppled over when the floor seemed to move under him.

“Oh, doesn’t this remind you of a drug you took once? Was it mushrooms? Or ecstasy?” she asked, watching him struggle. She looked at a clock over his shoulder. “Geez. Three hours. I hope I’m not dead.”

* * *

John had left the hospital room, telling the nurse he was going to pick up some dinner and drag Sherlock out of the lab, leaving Amelia alone for less than an hour. It was still relatively early, and visitors were shuffling in and out of the hospital, so it wasn’t unusual when someone stopped by the American’s room to pay their respects and drop off a card with flowers.

“You’re nothing special, are you?” The man entered the room, covered by a large coat, his collar pulled up to conceal his face from cameras in the halls. He lifted the chart at the foot of her bed, scoffing at the diagnostics, and tossed it down. “All that fuss.”

He stepped closer to her, lifting a piece of sticky hair off of her sweaty forehead. Watching her struggle in her drug induced sleep, he tried to see what his colleague had described as an intelligent young woman who’d turned tail at the first sign of trouble. A coward.

Now she was an _artist_ , living on inherited money, _with Sherlock Holmes._

Her heart rate continued to thrum at an unsustainable speed. He glanced up at the machine, reading over her vitals passively.

The man hadn’t considered her a coward from what he’d read. In fact, it was quite the opposite, and almost irritatingly so.

If he hadn’t tracked down some of her early research through his planted man on the Chemo board, he would have considerably displeased with the amount of money she was going to cost him now that Brenner’s idiotic plan was falling through.

She jerked in her bed, gasping for air, before falling still, her vitals beginning to crash.

“You’re going to die,” he sighed, making a final call and fishing a small syringe out of his jacket pocket. He hooked it to the IV port in her arm just before her heart-rate stopped. “We haven’t had our play date yet, and I’d hate to miss out on _that_.”

He emptied the syringe, watching the dark liquid quickly get sucked up by her body. Almost immediately, her heart rate started up again, slowing from the high 190s to 150s until it steadied out in the 80s.

Satisfied, he lifted her limp hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. Spying a white flower peeking out from the grocery store bouquet he’d use to slip in, he grinned.

Perfect.

He placed a single flower of white azalea between her fingers from the bouquet, letting the hand drop back to her side.

“We’ll see each other soon, _mon cherie_ ,” he whispered before leaving the room, careful to steal one full look into the security camera in the hall.

Sherlock would know to check, he was certain of this.

* * *

“Is that John?” Fake Amelia asked, circling Sherlock while he struggled through the maze of halls leading back to her room. “I think that’s John. Is he real though?”

Sherlock approached the doctor, swatting at his hand and taking a relieved breath.

“Oh thank god, you’re real,” he murmured, holding his head. “We need to get back to the room.”

“Sherlock, Jesus, are you ok?” John tucked the bag of takeout under his arm and steadied his friend.

“Drugged,” Sherlock slurred, closing his eyes and trying to readjust his senses, but the space remained a dizzy blur, aside from Amelia smirking at him from behind John.

“Tick tock,” she hummed, shifting her weight between her heels and toes impatiently.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Sherlock snapped.

“What?” John looked over is shoulder where Sherlock directed the command.

“Not you,” he corrected, shaking his head. “Amelia… Not actually Amelia…”

“Let’s get you back upstairs,” John guided the disoriented detective toward the elevator. “Do you know what happened?”

“How long have you been out of the hospital room?” Sherlock asked, spying the bag of food.

“Ah, just a few minutes or so,” he replied. “I was on my way to grab you for dinner…”

Sherlock recognized the name of the takeout restaurant and ran the mental calculations, struggling on specifics with Amelia finally chiming in.

“Based on where he is now, with no other stops, and accounting for food prep, he’s probably been gone for about 25 minutes,” she supplied, biting her bottom lip, a new nervous energy surrounding her.

“Half-hour,” Sherlock mumbled, ignoring John’s peppered questions. When the elevator re-opened, the detective charged past the nurses trying to get his attention. John, however, stopped and listened to what they were describing as a “miracle”.

Sherlock held himself up in the doorway of the hospital room, struck silent by the scene in front of him.

Amelia was sitting up in bed, twisting a flowers uneasily between her fingers while a doctor asked her some questions and double checked her vitals.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” she greeted, her expression brightening up slightly. “You look terrible.”

“We don’t know what happened, Mr. Holmes,” the female doctor stated sheepishly. “One minute she’s crashing, the next she’s perfectly normal.”

“ _Weird_ ,” Amelia strained a smile, her eyes falling back down on the flower in her hand.

“I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours,” the doctor decided, looking back at her chart and shaking her head in disbelief.

“Sherlock, you should sit down,” John caught Sherlock by the arm and guided him to one of the visitor seats, before pulling out a small flashlight from his pocket.

“Do you always have that?” Amelia teased softly, sitting still while John checked her over, re-checking, and checking again, until he was satisfied with what he saw. Confused, but satisfied.

“You just, woke up?” John asked, still shaken by the sudden recovery of his friend. It didn’t make any sense. There was simply no scientific explanation for what had happened.

Amelia paused, her fingers still toying with the flower.

“I did,” she answered.

“ _Azalea_ ,” Sherlock grumbled, leaning back with his eyes shut.

“He really doesn’t miss a thing, does he?” she joked, a shake to her voice.

“Tell John what it means,” Sherlock ordered, his head still throbbing and the room still spinning around him.

“Is he okay?” Amelia looked to John in concern, and Sherlock groaned loudly.

“Stop stalling, I’m fine, just a minor drugging-,” he grunted. “Azalea. What does it mean?”

“They mean a lot of different things,” she quickly confessed. “I mean, now they’re usually more positive, but it wasn’t always the case. I mean, they’re in the rhododendron family, so there are malicious connotations. They were death threats in Victorian times, though a modern interpretation of a _white_ azalea would be fragility, temperance, and restraint.”

“ _Restraint_?” John echoed uneasily. “Fragility…”

“Don’t forget the _death_ part,” Sherlock chimed in.

“It was in my hand when I woke up,” she continued, looking down at the white petals.

“This wasn’t a random miracle,” Sherlock concluded, sitting up shakily. “Someone needed time to slip in. They drugged me, waited until John left…”

“And cured me…?” Amelia seemed hesitant in the conclusion. “ _Why_?”

“Why would someone poison you in the first place?” Sherlock questioned back.

“If you have an actual answer, say that,” Amelia shot back, her expression souring at the implication in his tone. “I’m not particularly interested in puzzles at the moment.”

“ _I’m sorry I’m a little distracted_ , the room has changed color three times and John keeps turning into Mycroft,” he snapped tersely.

“I’m going to get a nurse to pull a blood sample,” John announced, escaping the room as their tempers rose.

There was moment of silence before Amelia spoke up again.

“You don’t think you were exposed to the same-?” her tone was meek at the thought of him going through the hell she’d just experienced.

“No,” he sounded confident in that respect. “I think it was just _regular_ mushrooms. Someone trying to be _clever_.”

Amelia just nodded, a heaviness sinking into the pit of her stomach. They were so close, and yet, another mystery.

He gave a shudder and Amelia tutted under her breath.

“Come here,” she set the flower on a nearby table, shifting to the side of the hospital bed and pulling up the covers.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled in protest.

“Oh stop being a baby,” she patted the empty space next to her. “Besides, I’m cold too.”

Sighing dramatically, he moved to the bed and crawled in next to her, letting her pulling the covers over both of them.

“ _There_ , isn’t that much better?” she asked, shifting a little to get comfortable. “Honestly, you always fight such reasonable solutions to your problems.”

“Shh,” he absently swatted at her, rolling onto his side, snuggling under the covers.

He knew she was right.

It was probably why his consciousness had developed her features when he was looking for common-sense guidance.

Of course, Sherlock never would have admitted it out loud.

By the time John had tracked down the equipment he needed, he returned to the hospital room where the pair were sleeping peacefully.

Amelia was curled around Sherlock’s waist, the detective’s arm slung over her shoulders and his head resting on hers.

While he decided not to bother him for the blood draw, John did snap a quick photograph on his phone- for sentiment’s sake.

* * *


	8. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I'm on a roll this week, haha. I should have another chapter up in the next few days, especially now that we're really rolling along with the story. 
> 
> No real warnings for this chapter- Amelia does get to finally meet Mycroft- so that's neat. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_Since meeting Sherlock, I’ve tried to remind myself that things aren’t always as they seem. Just when you think you have the bad guy, it turns out to be a ruse or a red-herring. It’s always someone you least expect, but are never surprised about in the end._

* * *

Sherlock wasn’t one to leave questions unresolved.

He requested the security footage from the hospital immediately after Amelia was discharged and he was back on his feet. The first viewing had been largely uneventful until he spied a coated figure entering Amelia’s room.

He waited until the figure returned to the hall, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. The timing lined up perfectly with when he and John were fumbling around the lab area. Barely five minutes had passed when the figure walked out of the room and stole a bold look at the security camera.

Sherlock’s stomach dropped and he snapped the laptop shut, practically tossing it onto the desk, as if the action would change what he’d just seen on the screen.

“I swear John, you’re going to get us banned from Tesco,” Amelia was complaining, entering the flat with a bundle of bags in her hands. “The coupon was _expired_.”

“Not all of us have limitless funds to spend willy-nilly,” the doctor countered. “It was a good deal and it was ridiculous they weren’t honoring it.”

“It was three dollars,” she sighed, setting the bags in the kitchen. Unbundling herself from her bundle of clothes, she looked over at Sherlock. “You look like you saw a ghost, you alright?"

Sherlock snapped his attention back at her, mechanically nodding his head. He grabbed his laptop, shuffling away to his bedroom, asking not to be disturbed.

“But we’re making curry-!” Amelia tried shouting after him, frowning when the door to his room slammed shut. “What’s got the bee in his bonnet?”

“He gets moody sometimes,” John shrugged it off, unpacking the groceries and stuffing them into the fridge and pantry. “I tend not to worry until he doesn’t leave the room for a few days.”

Amelia pursed her lips, unsure what to say. She’d seen plenty of his fits, but this seemed different. He looked unsettled, almost… dare she say it, _scared_.

“We’ll make sure there’s some extra,” she decided, trying to throw a little pep into the statement as she started digging out cooking utensils.

“Good luck with _that_ ,” John laughed, shaking his head.

* * *

“William Scott Sherlock Holmes,” Amelia stood outside the detective’s bedroom door, her hand on her hip, a plate of steaming curry and rice in the other. “If you just open the door and take the food, this would all be over.”

There was no response.

Sighing, she fidgeted with the lock. Of course it was far more complicated than the ones she’d grown up with, where one could shove a bobby pin into the hole and unlock the door.

“I’ll kick the door down,” she threatened with another knock.

“I’d like to see that, to be perfectly honest,” came Sherlock’s response.

“Just take your dinner so I can go back to my evening,” she sighed, leaning her head against the wooden door. “I have important things to do.”

The door opened, revealing an amused Sherlock in the doorway.

“Important things?” he asked, taking the plate and setting it on the bed behind him.

“It’s almost Thanksgiving,” she reminded him.

“We don’t do that here,” he replied dryly.

“Or whatever thing you all call it- _Harvest Festival_ , _semantics._ It involves lots of food and people,” she rolled her eyes. “You were standing right next to me, remember? I guess my uncle wanted to do something with the family, and invited Mrs. Hudson… it’s next week and I still have to track down Molly and Greg to invite them, plus John’s giving me Mycroft’s number…”

“Do not invite him,” Sherlock shut the door, locking it for emphasis. Amelia heard his footfalls on the other side before he settled on the bed, the frame creaking slightly.

“I have a meeting with him tonight, you know?” she continued through the door. “About the case? Apparently there was another whistleblower who gave him my information.”

Silence.

“Though, I suspect, given from what John’s told me about him, he’s well aware of both my involvement and our activities, despite your best intentions,” she waited, listening for any movement.

More silence.

“The whistleblower was Jessica Reynolds,” Amelia paused, hearing a shift on the bed. “John and I talked to him on the phone yesterday, filling him in while you were getting permission for the security footage.”

The door opened abruptly again.

“You _told_ him?” he asked, exasperated.

“Not everything, but I figured that would get you to open the door,” she grinned. “Did you want to come with me tonight? John is busy, going to a late show with the teacher. I’m a little nervous to go alone.”

“You _should_ be,” Sherlock sighed. “He’s the absolute worst.”

“That’s a pretty high bar for you,” Amelia mused.

“He’s going to be condescending, it might be best if I go alone,” he suggested, but Amelia chuckled.

“He was a perfect gentleman over the phone,” she pointed out. “Besides, I live with you. I think I can handle an older version.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” Sherlock warned tersely.

“I’m leaving in an hour,” she smiled. “Don’t forget mittens and a hat. It’s cold out.”

* * *

“ _Subtle_ ,” Amelia commented when a black town car pulled up outside Baker Street. “Is everything is ostentatious with him…?”

“Wait until you see the Diogenes Club,” Sherlock murmured, grabbing his coat and scarf, ushering Amelia out the door. The weather had taken a slight turn for the worst, the windy evening adding a bit of sleet once the sun had set.

“Good evening,” Anthea greeted, typing at her phone when the pair had settled into the backseat of the car.

“Anthea,” Sherlock greeted with a curt nod of his head. “Mycroft’s assistant.”

Amelia hummed in acknowledgement, watching the woman’s fingers type at rapid speed across the device.

It was terrifyingly impressive.

The drive to the Diogenes Club was spent mostly in silence, with Amelia occasionally looking down at her own phone to answer texts from Mrs. Hudson or Ruthie about the upcoming dinner.

“Anthea, does Mycroft have an opening in his schedule for this upcoming Sunday evening?” Amelia asked, elbowing Sherlock when he tried to protest. “We’re having a dinner and I know both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson would love for him to join us.”

Amelia could have sworn she saw the tiniest smile on Anthea’s face, but the assistant remained professional, making a note and letting her know that she’d double check, to Sherlock’s horror.

“I hate you,” the detective muttered.

“Hate is a feeling of passion, don’t forget,” Amelia reminded him, patting his hand.

“We’re here,” Anthea broke contact with her phone to look at the large white building.

“You have to stay silent, unless you’re in one of the meeting rooms,” Sherlock explained as they were guided out of the car and through the club.

“You’re kidding me…?” Amelia asked, but fell silent when they entered the ornate space, noting that the large collection of members were all quietly attending to their business.

Anthea opened a large wooden door, waiting for the pair to move inside.

“Thank you Anthea,” Mycroft folded a book shut, moving from behind a large desk once the door had been closed. “Sherlock, I didn’t expect to see you this evening. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I wasn’t interested in letting you verbally attack my flatmate,” Sherlock shot back, dropping into one of the chair near a large fireplace with a huff.

“He’s in a mood today,” Amelia warned, pulling her gloves off and shaking Mycroft’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he gestured to the seat next to Sherlock. “ _Please_.”

Amelia shot Sherlock a look that said ‘behave’, while the detective rolled his eyes.

“She’s _nervous_ ,” Sherlock stated, earning a scowl from Amelia’s direction.

“This is all formalities,” Mycroft sat across from the pair, gesturing to the tea set in front of him. “Tea?”

“No thank-,” Amelia started but Sherlock helped himself.

“ _Americans_ ,” he smirked toward his older brother.

“Did you bring the data in question?” he cut to the chase and Amelia fished through her bag, pulling out the thin external hard drive.

“Everything we have, including, the equations for the contaminated spores,” she passed it to him.

“But no cure?” he asked the pair, turning the thin memory drive over in his hands. _“What a shame.”_

“We’re working on it,” Sherlock cut in.

“I imagine you reviewed the hospital footage?” Mycroft asked. “What a _miraculous_ turn of events.”

“I did,” Sherlock challenged, sitting up. _“Did you?”_

“Of course,” his brother’s gaze briefly flickered to Amelia, returning to Sherlock before she could even notice. “Dr. Brenner, how are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Amelia replied. “A little frustrated that we haven’t fully worked out the ‘ _cure_ ’, but I’m sure we’ll be able to figure something out once you’re able to access the more up to date records.”

“This should be more than enough to put that into action,” Mycroft promised, tucking the hard drive into his pocket. “Though I must admit, _I’m disappointed_ , having heard such high praise of your skills.”

Amelia looked like she’d been caught off guard by the subtle shift in tone. Sherlock, instead, jumped in to try and at least try to save her dignity.

“Is that all?” Sherlock asked, standing up, pulling Amelia up with him. “Because we _did_ have business to attend to this evening.”

“Aside from wallowing in that decrepit hole you call a home?” Mycroft chided back.

“The smell is _almost_ gone,” Amelia insisted jokingly, trying to pull back to the formal conversation they’d begun with. Sherlock could see the nerves fading as she analyzed the exchange.

“ _Charming_ ,” came Mycroft’s reply. “Though if you’re using the place as a make-shift lab, I would be concerned about cross contamination and the _confidence_ of your calculations.”

_Oh._

Amelia’s jaw clenched.

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, knowing full well the storm that was about to be unleashed.

“Excuse me?” Her voice raised slightly in pitch, still trying to maintain a polite demeanor. It was Amelia after all, and she was infamously friendly, even to those rude to her face.

_But when someone challenged her research or intelligence?_

“Did you work at the bodily fluid coated kitchen table or the dust covered desk in the living area?” He continued.

Sherlock knew his brother was confident he was poking a nerve. It didn’t take a genius to recognize the level of pride Amelia Brenner put into her work.

Still, it was amusing for Sherlock to watch. Mycroft had no idea the dangerous waters he was wading into.

It was phenomenal.

“If myself or your brother did work within Baker Street, do you really think us _so stupid t_ hat we wouldn’t properly sanitize our workspace when dealing with components of quite _literal life or death?_ ” She challenged sharply, scowling at the government official.“We _both_ are quite well educated in the basics of scientific process, though I imagine that must be difficult to fully understand when _you’ve probably never stepped into a lab.”_

“I’ll just have to make sure my people can replicate the results,” he replied, unfazed by the lashing. “You’ll have to forgive my hesitation in fully trusting the research of a disgraced scientist and the daughter of a CEO whose company I’m now investigating for fraudulent medications.”

Sherlock saw dozens of emotions flash through Amelia’s expression at that.

Considering her options, she threw on a smile.

_Oh. Oh._

“Let me know if you have any trouble with interpreting the equations,” she replied calmly. “There’s a lot of big numbers, and some of them even have letters, so it might be a bit confusing. After all, you seem to have trouble taking _all_ variables into consideration before jumping to conclusions.”

She reached for her phone in her pocket, pretending to be surprised by something.

“Look at that,” she feigned an apologetic look. “Ruthie is calling. I have to take this outside. Very important stuff. She might not have the right sweet potato recipe.”

She left the room in a huff, accidentally leaving her scarf on the seat. Sherlock plucked it up, tucking it under is arm.

“For the record, Ruthie did _not_ call,” Sherlock stated. “She just dislikes you.”

“I like her,” Mycroft confessed. “A bit emotional, but she isn’t dull. John is too accommodating sometimes, you need someone around with a solid head on their shoulders.”

“She’s solidly stubborn,” Sherlock replied. “Trust me, it’s _exhausting_.”

“I’ve heard she is quite keen in ensuring you make decisions that don’t involve self sacrifice.”

“As I said, _exhausting_ ,” he replied, moving toward the exit. “I should make sure she isn’t trying to set your car on fire.”

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” Mycroft called out with a final grin.

* * *

The right back to Baker Street, Amelia kept her opinions about Mycroft Holmes to herself.

She hadn’t decided if she truly disliked him, or if he had just been playing games with her (much like his younger brother, who thrived on coming up with new ways to make her lose her mind).

Sherlock had fallen back into his mood the duration of the ride. Answering any questions Amelia chimed toward him with nods or grunts.

Regardless of what John said, something was wrong, and she knew he wasn’t going to give it up unless she shook it out of him.

The town car came to a stop outside of Baker Street and Sherlock all but sprinted back to the apartment building before Amelia could get a word in. She looked apologetically at Anthea, who was back to her phone and didn’t notice.

Fortunately, the front door was locked, so that bought Amelia a little time to catch up with her friend.When Amelia intercepted him, she caught him by the arm, standing in the middle of the living room with a concerned frown.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “I mean, we don’t have to do anything this Sunday. I’m sure Ruthie would have no problem hosting.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. “No, that's not what I’m- _Sunday is fine_.”

“What is it?” she released his hand, giving him permission to leave if he so choose. Her eyes searched his expression, trying to read any change he would allow her. _“The hospital footage.”_

It was more of a statement than a guess, but Amelia knew she’d hit the spot when he began denying it. It explained the strange exchange between Mycroft and Sherlock a few moments earlier.

“How bad?” she pressed, but stopped when she saw his face pulling into a sour expression. “I guess, you don’t have to tell me, I _do_ trust you. It just doesn’t… you shouldn’t have to burden yourself with something on your own. It isn’t fair to you.”

He considered her words, or at least, that’s what Amelia could interpret as he stood with his shoulders back and his body language stiff.

“It wasn’t good,” he finally admitted. Amelia could feel his gaze sweeping over her, observing her, waiting for a reaction or another barrage of questions.

“We didn’t catch anything in the bloodwork that would have raised any red flags,” she reasoned, trying to remain optimistic. It was becoming more difficult these days. “Maybe… you’re overthinking it?”

“I’m not,” he looked miserable, an unusual state for the normally confident detective. He took a breath, turning toward his room in what Amelia assumed was an escape.

Instead, to her surprise, he returned with his laptop.

Setting it on the desk in the living room, he pressed play in the section he’d replayed hundreds of times that day.

Amelia hunched over the device, watching the graining footage shift slightly when a man with a familiar build walk confidently into her room with a bouquet of flowers. None of the nurses even batted an eyelid.

“John had just stepped out, hadn’t he?” she asked, and Sherlock nodded with a low noise of acknowledgement.

“ _Watch_ ,” he pulled her focus back to the screen where the man was exiting the hospital room.

The man walked out of the room, stealing a look at the camera, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

“Do you know him?” Amelia asked quietly. She felt like her blood had chilled when she saw that familiar smile. That same smile that had dumped the near lethal spores in her lap not even two weeks previously.

“I do,” Sherlock looked to Amelia, waiting for her to fully process the information.

The last few seconds of the video continued on a loop on the screen.

“It’s same man from the train station,” she met his gaze. “Why would he…?”

“ _You_ wouldn’t have recognized him,” Sherlock’s voice was low, his attention returning to the computer screen. “And of course I should have dug deeper into the financial records, it would have been clear once I’d isolated individual transactions-”

“Who is he?” Amelia’s interrupted, her voice shaky. “He wasn’t in the shop when it burnt down…”

“He wouldn’t have been,” Sherlock assured her quietly. “He doesn’t work for people. He works for himself.”

“If that’s… who I think it is…?” she could feel the blood draining from her cheeks.

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock confirmed, pausing the screen when the infamous criminal looked up at the camera. “And for some reason, _he changed his mind about killing you.”_

* * *


	9. In

* * *

_Is it better or worse that Moriarty could be woven into this mess with Chemco?_

_From what I understand from Amelia’s medical notes, she’d brushed the sleeve of death, and without his intervention, perhaps we would have been planning her funeral._

_Even though she started as a client, I know I see her as a member of our little Baker Street family, and imagining her gone like that… it’s chilling._

_I want this all figured out. Things seemed (ironically) so much less complicated when we were chasing down the murderers of anonymous corpses._

* * *

To her credit, Amelia handled the news surprisingly well. She dropped into the sofa, staring down at the floor wordlessly. Sherlock half expected crying or maybe some brief hysterics.

Instead, she took the information and tried to come up with an explanation, much like Sherlock had been doing when he locked himself away.

“It doesn’t add up,” she spoke up suddenly. “Let’s say he’s working with my mother, why would he do the dirty work himself unless he got a benefit from it?”

“You likely caused him to lose a significant bit of money,” Sherlock reasoned, taking a seat in his favorite chair. “He doesn’t like that.”

“Then _why change his mind?_ ” Amelia continued, drumming her fingers on her chin. “Rationally, _I did_ ruin a lot for Chemco and their investors. That hasn’t changed.”

“He does have an unhealthy obsession with _me_ ,” Sherlock supplied. “And it isn’t as if we don’t spend a significant amount of time together. He could have come to his own conclusions. He did use John against me at the pool.”

“He must have seen you at the train station,” she agreed. “But, if he was working with my mother, surely he would have known that we were working together on _this_? I’ve just assumed she’s been monitoring me since I stepped foot in England.”

“Unless she _didn’t_ ,” he suggested with a tilt of his head. “Or she tried to betray him, hence why he would go back on his actions. You being dead benefits your mother as well, we have to remember that.”

“ _Mother dearest_ ,” she scoffed dryly. “She does something stupid like cross a dangerous person like Moriarty, he takes back his actions, leaving up an opportunity to finally connect the dots and present the evidence to authorities. That still breaks up Chemco, and starts an investigation.”

“Have you heard anything from your mother recently?” he asked and Amelia paused, biting her bottom lip and pulling out her cell phone, scrolling through the call log.

“ _No_ ,” she realized, filtering through a long list of ‘John’ and ‘Sherlock’. “Not a word. She tried calling a month or so ago.”

“I wonder if he has someone on the _inside_ ,” Sherlock paused. “Or he’s taken care of the Lydia Brenner problem and now he’s on a completely different track.”

“So, we could have potentially just wasted our time?” Amelia translated, sighing.

“We saved _thousands_ of live, that isn’t wasted time,” he reminded her and she bobbed her head in reluctant agreement. “But, it does open a new chapter in the case.”

“Wouldn’t it be a _new_ case?” she chuckled. “I hope you don’t bill hourly, you might run me to ruin by the time this is done.”

“Make the curry again and I’ll consider it even.”

* * *

John was equally perplexed when they caught him up later that night.

“Mycroft knows?” was his first question.

“ _That’s_ what you got from all of that?” Sherlock asked with an exasperated sigh. “Yes, my brother is _unfortunately_ aware of the situation, because the two of you decided to pull him in.”

“I thought we were _done_ ,” Amelia tried to justify, but was ignored by the detective.

“And he hasn’t intervened in bringing Moriarty into custody?” John continued.

“I would imagine he’s a difficult person to track down,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Granted, I haven’t spoken to my brother about that particular point.”

“He tried to murder Mia!” John gestured toward her. Amelia perked up, having been doodling on her sketch pad, practicing some warm-up sketches of John’s deep frowns.

“ _It’s_ _true_ , Sherlock,” she replied, returning to her drawing. “I did nearly get murdered.”

“It’s impossible to _think_ with you two around,” he sighed. “Moriarty will come to us when he decides it is time. We have to be ready.”

“Business as usual then,” John didn’t seem particularly pleased about the tune of events, but who could blame him? There wasn’t much any of them could do except wait for the next shoe to drop.

Mycroft had enough evidence against Chemco, and a text update confirmed arrests would begin to be made as soon as the next morning.

“Do you make turkey during your not-Thanksgiving, _basically Thanksgivin_ g-, dinners?” Amelia asked, adding a daisy to the corner of her sketch.

“My mum made goose,” John replied with a fond smile. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a good Harvest Festival dinner.”

“ _Goose_ ,” Amelia pulled a face. “What about ham?”

“Too sweet,” Sherlock shot it down immediately, scowling. “You would want something _savory_.”

“Lamb?” John tried.

“I’m just going to make an insane amount of mashed potatoes, and you’re all going to be happy about it,” she sighed, throwing her head back.

“Ah, come on, it won’t be so bad,” John tried reassuring her. “If you need help, I’d be happy to offer a hand. Lamb shanks are delicious.”

“ _Lamb_ ,” she repeated. “Okay. When in Rome, I suppose.”

“You’re in _London_ ,” Sherlock supplied, pulling out a large leather bound book and opening to the first page.

“ _You_ don’t get any,” Amelia pointed her pencil toward him, frowning. “If you’re nice, _maybe_ you’ll get pie privileges back.”

“You’re making pie?” John lit up, and the pair continued planning the full spread for the upcoming dinner.

It was nice to take their minds off of death and destruction, if only for a few hours at a time.

John eventually excused himself to bed, leaving Sherlock and Amelia reading and drawing, respectively.

Sherlock, midway through his book, lowered it to check the fire and steal a curious glance in Amelia’s direction.

She’d fallen asleep, her sketchbook plopped open over her chest, her hand dangling over the edge of the sofa.

“ _Go to bed_ ,” he nudged her knee with the tip of his shoe, but she didn’t stir. 

Sighing, he stood up, grabbed her sketchbook, and moved to set it on the desk, when the picture she’d been working on had caught his eye.

She’d been sketching a picture of him, buried in his book, with notes indicating she intended to turn it into a more formal portrait. At the top, a small section denoted potential colors for his eyes, with her scribbling names out, the pencil dragging across the page as she fell asleep.

The drawing was incredibly well done. She’d gotten every detail, the subtle frown when he concentrated, the way his fingers gripped the book itself- holding it nimbly with a trained violinists hand.

He’d always thought her smart, she’d long proven her ability to work complex equations and cite the classics. But this proved to him an element he’d, to his embarrassment, had overlooked.

The always observing artist's eye.

Was this how she was always able to interpret the tiniest shift in expression? She had so quickly determined his elusive attitude earlier was about the hospital footage. Had he tried to successfully keep a secret from her for longer than a few hours?

Tucking the book aside, he grabbed a blanket off of John’s chair and draped it over her. He poked the fire, added a little more wood, and repositioned himself back in his chair, eager to pick up in his book where he’d left off.

It felt like the first time he’d truly recognized and valued John’s insight on a case. Certainly the doctor had been a refreshing change in pace and dutiful companion prior to that point, but after Sherlock had his revelation, he’d begun thinking of John as a partner rather than an assistant.

Perhaps that’s what was happening here, having finally gotten to know the American woman, he could see beyond the fixed smiles and excitable outbursts.

She was kind because she observed and watched those she cared about.

His eyes drifted back to the sketchbook.

_People she cared about..._

It left a funny feeling in his chest, something new and hard to explain.

Three and a half months had felt like years. The way she had fallen into Baker Street, and his life, felt so natural- he’d almost forgotten what it felt like when it was just him and John.

Initially he’d been amused by their houseguest. She was a fun puzzle, a new client who’d leave the moment the case was resolved. He’d taken her straightforward emotions for naïveté, a crucial mistake.

While others he’d encountered in his life had been outward about their brilliance, she kept it close to the chest, a refreshing change of pace that confused him greatly.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Amelia yawned, rolling on her side, her hands folded under her cheek.

“I don’t understand how you’re capable of falling asleep anywhere your body drops,” he answered, adjusting his shoulders and lifting his book back up. He didn’t read.

Instead, he stole a sideways glance at his companion.

Amelia smiled sleepily, turning onto her back now that he wasn’t facing her.

“I tossed and turned in New York,” she admitted softly, her voice barely floating above the crackle of the fire. “Maybe dealing with all of _this_ has helped.”

He hadn’t expected an introspective answer, having assumed she would have chimed back with her usual quip. She stayed still. He could have sworn she was holding her breath waiting for something- a response- from him.

Sherlock cleared his throat, a nervous tickle catching before he spoke.

“Your research could still bring a lot of good,” he offered. _Pathetic_. He cringed inwardly.

“I guess,” she sounded deflated. “I never wanted to work for her, or any of those big companies. Honestly, if she hadn’t threatened disowning me, I probably would have just studied art and lived quietly in an overpriced room in Jersey.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“I wonder if it would have been,” she mused. “Comparably, ya know? Never having had to force myself through things I hated, to do work I despised, for a person who never truly cared about me.”

She paused, letting the words fall before she choked out a breathy laugh.

“Maybe it isn’t too late to find a cottage somewhere and paint trees,” she shifted in the blankets. “Find a nice creek to stand in, cry a little.”

“It sounds like you’ve been reading too much poetry,” he teased. She hummed under her breath.

“Is that such a bad thing?” She sat up, setting the blanket aside and stretching. “You should get some sleep. It’s late.”

He kept his face tucked into his book, pretending to ignore her. He heard her tut under her breath, returning to the blanket only to drape it over his shoulders.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she smiled again, retreating to her flat in the basement, a long drawn out yawn following behind her.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until she was out of sight. Taking a slow inhale to calm his nerves, an unfamiliar scent caught him off guard.

Fragrant, but with earthy, warm, undertones. A perfume.

He leaned into the blanket, taking a deep inhale. His mind flickered to Amelia posing him under the towering golden plants at the Conservatory.

_Sunflowers_ , his tired brain filled in.

She’d changed her perfume from the peony one she favoured.

_Why?_

He tucked himself deeper into the blanket, the floral scent mixing nicely with the smell of burning wood and old books.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fluff, a little plot... gotta keep that slow burn burning...  
> Hope you enjoyed! Drop a kudos or a comment! I love talking to people! :D


	10. The

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did alter a tag with the addition of this chapter- there is going to a major character injury in this chapter.
> 
> Just a warning before you proceed.

* * *

_The dinner went well, all things considered._

* * *

Before anyone knew it, Sunday had arrived.

Greg and Molly had enthusiastically accepted Amelia’s invitation to dinner. Molly brought a plate of chocolate cookies, and Greg pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his jacket that Amelia hadn’t seen in the stores since moving to the UK.

Her uncle Max had spent the night with Mrs. Hudson, and helped set up the apartment for the dinner, dutifully setting out plates and making sure that Amelia and John didn’t burn the place down before guests arrived.

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock had been ushered out of the way, with the former having broken into a bottle of champagne a little early and the latter just hovering and commenting on the chemistry of cooked meat- correcting Amelia and John every few minutes.

Ruthie and Frank arrived shortly after with little Tommy holding a plate of crudely decorated fall sugar cookies. He handed them to Sherlock, who stared perplexed at the little boy until Tommy proudly declared;

“I made biscuits,” before sprinting into Amelia’s arms with an excited squeal.

Mycroft was the last to arrive, passing Mrs. Hudson a bottle of pinot noir and taking a quiet seat in the living room to avoid that chaos of the kitchen.

“You _need_ to tell me where you found this,” Amelia demanded of Lestrade, taking a long pull from the dark liquor with a satisfied sigh. “I can’t do gin anymore. I’m losing my mind.”

He laughed, promising to text her the address of the shop he’d found, while John turned his attention Tommy who was asking a million questions about the meal the doctor was struggling to prepare.

Molly asked Amelia how the case was coming, and the women soon fell into an intense conversation regarding some questionable toxicology reports the medical professional had come across on a recent murder.

With no one watching the lamb in the oven, the place quickly filled with smoke.

John, thankfully, caught the disaster before the place caught alight, and fortunately, the meat wasn’t too overdone (though Mycroft would have begged to differ).

The meal went well, and with drinks flowing and conversation bubbling, Mrs. Hudson convinced Sherlock to play a few songs on the violin. Ruthie, red faced and grinning over a hot toddy, demanded some drinking songs and wore the detective down until he started playing.

The upbeat music got the whole place singing along (even Mycroft muttered along to the familiar tunes).

Tommy danced around in circles until he practically collapsed from exhaustion.

It’d been a few hours, night falling outside, when Ruthie and Frank announced that it was time for them to catch the train back to Kent. Max offered to walk them to the tube, taking Tommy out of Ruthie’s hesitant hands and carrying him over his shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson dropped into John’s chair, taking a deep breath and sharing an embarrassing story of Sherlock with the remaining group.

Molly and Amelia were playing a drinking game involving plastic cups and coins, trying to explain its rules to Lestrade.

“ _Then_ you drink-,” Amelia took a swig of beer.

“Amelia-, Mycroft needs some of your drugs,” Sherlock called across the space, sending Ameliaand Molly into a conspiratorial fit of giggles. She stood up, crossing the room, her mood bubbly and light from the good company and drinks.

“I’ll be honest Mycroft, you never struck me as the psychedelic type,” she hummed, sitting on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “Maybe a big bag of weed.”

“I’m finding it difficult to track down the samples you tested in your report,” he reported dryly. “Apparently, most reputable drug dealers aren’t interested in meeting with government representatives, no matter the price.”

“I’m trying to picture you buying some mushrooms in Lambeth,” Amelia closed her eyes and grinned. “Yep. _Phenomenal_. Thank you for that.”

“Do you have extra samples?” he ignored her commentary and she hopped up.

“I do, but I’ll need some help moving the bins around,” she held her hand up above her head to indicate the height of the cultivation shelf she’d crafted in her closet.

“I need to pick up some more crisps,” John dusted off his pants, standing up. “I’ll help you before I step out.”

“Don’t drop them on yourselves,” Sherlock called after the pair. “If you need someone over 5’8’’, give me a ring.”

He returned to his brisk conversation on where Mycroft had tracked Lydia Brenner when there was a distinct crack of a gun from the lower level.

“Gunshot,” he stated, looking between Lesterade and Mycroft, leaping to his feet.

Taking two steps at a time, he could hear the sound of al altercation, some more thuds, before he kicked open the door to Amelia’s flat.

The room was in disarray. Someone had been tossing drawers and throwing things off of Amelia’s bookshelves, searching for something.

Near the fireplace, there were signs of a more traditional confrontation, Amelia’s reading chair had been overturned, clothes kicked up and on the ground…

Amelia was kneeling next to John, pressing a towel into his abdomen. Nearby, Maxwell Brenner lay unconscious with a broken porcelain pot next to him, dirt and flower petals scattered about.

Between them, a single pistol. The source, Sherlock surmised, of the gunshot.

“I don’t know what to do,” Amelia pressed down as hard as she could where the bleeding was coming out with a towel she must have grabbed from one of the overturned drawers.

“ _Oh_ ,” Mycroft appeared in the doorway, Lestrade over his shoulder. The inspector whirled around, pulling out a radio and calling for medics and officer backup to Baker Street,

“Get Molly!” Sherlock ordered his brother, dropping next to John’s head, checking his pulse in the neck. “John, John can you hear me?”

“ _Unfortunately_ ,” the doctor grunted through pained breaths. Even though Amelia was pressing with all of her strength, the blood from the wound was blossoming out, staining John’s sweater.

“I went for the gun,” Amelia explained, her voice cracking in panic. “I’d almost gotten it, but he panicked and fired.”

“Is he awake?” Molly entered the room, taking over from Amelia. She leaned into John’s wound, earning a low hiss of pain from the doctor.

Amelia just stood aside, her hands coated in blood, her eyes widened in horror, trying to keep up while Molly worked.

“If someone else _bloody_ asks that-,” John started, wincing when Molly reached under his torso to check if the bullet had gone through.

“Didn’t pass,” she informed Sherlock, her brows knitted in complete focus. She was asking about the type of gun, which John did his best to choke out between deep, breaths.

“Medics are three minutes out,” Lestrade called into the room.

“John, I’m so sorry,” Amelia had his hand in hers, drawing circles with her thumb over his knuckles. She looked up at Sherlock, shaking her head. “It was him the whole time. You were right about Moriarty being an investor. _They_ were working together. Not my mom.”

“Don’t act like I’m dying,” he huffed, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Molly leaned into the wound again to try and stop the bleeding. “Not the first time I’ve been shot.”

“I think _that’s_ the problem,” Sherlock supplied with a snort.

“I just assumed it would have been your fault,” John shot back. “You know, the final gunshot wound."

“Are you two seriously bickering right now?” Amelia swallowed back the start of a small sob.

“They’re here,” Lestrade was leading an EMT and a gurney into the room. Molly started listing off what she knew, with Sherlock peppering in any details, and John slurring out his blood type.

The doctor was unconscious by the time he was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Amelia was clutching onto Sherlock’s arm, staining the material with their friend’s blood, though neither paid it any mind. They were both too focused on John. Sherlock felt a lump in his chest. How had he missed Max being the true villain of the Chemo scheme? Certainly there had to have been some clue?

When they returned to the flat to grab clean shirts, an officer was helping Maxwell into the hall of Baker Street, the old man complaining of a cut in his head. Amelia spotted him immediately, her grasp on Sherlock dropping.

Before Sherlock could stop her, she bee-lined for her uncle, her expression wild.

“Do you know what you’ve done!?” she caught him by the front of his jacket and threw him back against the wall, a loud thud denoting the strength with which she hit him. “You sorry excuse for a human, _if anything happens to him-!”_

Mycroft, surprisingly, was the one who pulled her back, her arms struggling against the older Holmes. She looked ready to rip Max’s spine clean from his body, her eyes filled with pure rage.

“You’re a piece of shit! I fucking hate you!” she screeched, clawing at the air.

“Try to better contain your feral little beast, Holmes,” Maxwell snorted. “Lord knows I couldn’t.”

Sherlock, who’d moved to intercept Amelia whirled around, and planted a fist in the center of Maxwell Brenner’s face. The was definitive crack as a result, and a policeman cut in, shoving Sherlock aside and hustling Brenner out of the place.

He stood back, hands up, while her uncle sputtered through blood and bemoaned that the detective had broken his nose.

“Too bad it didn’t go into his brain,” Amelia tutted under her breath

Sherlock smirked, grabbing a pair of shirts from his room (as Amelia’s was now a crime scene).

When he returned, she’d washed her hands and gratefully took the clean dress shirt from him.

“Bastard ruined my favorite cardigan with _my friend’s bloo_ d,” she hissed, angrily buttoning down the shirt.

“He has to spend hours with Mycroft interrogating him,” Sherlock tried to reassure her, though he too was seething under the surface. It did little to calm the fuming woman, who just slammed her way outside, flagging down a taxi to the hospital.

* * *

John was in surgery when they arrived. Molly Hooper met them in the waiting area, looking none too optimistic about what little news she had to share.

“He lost a lot of blood,” she explained softly, her fingers nervously intertwined in front of her. “They think there’s internal damage. He was still unconscious when we arrived.”

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes cast down, a strange mix of anger, fear, and sorrow. It should have been her in the OR, not him. John Watson didn’t deserve this. He was too good.

Sherlock stood still, though Amelia was certain he was trying to walk through every step of their case, trying to catch what he’d missed. Looking between them, Molly cleared her throat.

“I’m going to head home,” she gestured to her bloodied clothes. “I didn’t have anything in my locker. I’ll call?”

“Thank you, Molly,” Amelia took her hands gratefully. Sherlock just nodded, barely registering the interaction, so Amelia took it upon herself to walk the exhausted Molly Hooper to a taxi.

“Where’s your head?” Amelia asked when she returned, guiding him to one of the chairs in the waiting area.

“Where did we miss it?” He asked in frustration.

Amelia had been asking herself the same question since Max pulled the gun on her and John. He was one of the few people she’d trusted completely, and when she found out he’d been the one to betray her. That he’d been the one to call for her death.

Her heart had crumbled.

“He slipped under the radar,” Amelia muttered bitterly. “Played the game with Moriarty whispering in his ear.”

* * *

“I feel like someone shot me,” John mumbled, his eyes cloudy from the pain medicine.

It’d been hours since he’d been released from surgery, groggy and barely conscious.

But he was awake and _alive_.

Outside, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Amelia replied, holding his hand to her chest. “You had us worried.”

“Mmm,” John chuckled softly. “I don’t see _why_. You two would have convinced God himself to give me back.”

“The Reaper wouldn’t have been able to leave the room, who are we kidding?” Amelia chided back. “I’d be yelling at him, and Sherlock would pull some deeply buried secret up to use it against him.”

John smiled, giving her hand a final squeeze before sliding it back under the covers with a shiver.

“I’m gonna try and sleep a little more...” he said, his eyes already shutting and his body falling limp. He was breathing steadily moments later, sound asleep.

“He’s really the best out of us,” she commented, watching him breath peacefully.

“I know,” Sherlock agreed in a low rumble.

“Your brother has Max in custody, right?” she moved to sit down next to him, her arms crossed, and body rigid.

“He had to have his nose treated,” he shared a sly grin with her. “But, they should begin the interrogation soon.”

“What a fucking asshole,” she muttered under her breath, her fists squeezed at her sides. “I _trusted_ him.”

“Apparently not enough to give him a hard drive,” Sherlock mused.

“I didn’t want to bring him in too deep,” she sighed, distorting her face in disgust. “ _I was worried he might get hurt_.”

“Did you tell him about the hard drive you sent to Ruth?”

“Of course not,” she frowned. “Less he knew and all that. Why?”

“She didn’t seem close with him at dinner,” he replied, leaning back. “I thought it was strange, given how often he visited. I chalked it up to a recent quarrel.”

Amelia hummed, trying to recall the dinner that had only happened a few hours before.

“He walked them out,” she reasoned. “Though, that was probably so he could get into my apartment without anyone noticing.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded. “Ruth and Frank both seemed perplexed by it.”

He closed his eyes, his fingers steepled under his chin. He didn’t speak again.

 _Mind Palace_ , Amelia thought to herself, left a little uneasy by the sudden loneliness that swept the room with her two friends. It was the first time she’d truly been alone in weeks.

She didn’t like the silence. It meant she had time to think, and that’s when she was able to take an introspective look into her life. It was awful.

Now that Chemco had been stopped, the true villain revealed, what could she do next? There was of course helping John recover, and whatever Moriarty was up to.

But eventually John would be fine, and frankly, Moriarty would always linger above them, so planning around that was impossible.

Was it time to consider going back home to New York?

She’d thought about it once or twice. Going back to a normal life.

A friend of hers from college had reached out about an amateur art exhibition in the Village she was running. She’d wanted to see if Amelia had anything she wanted to contribute.

It’d been almost a week and Amelia still hadn’t replied, unsure of what exactly to say.

How could she even begin to explain the chaos that her life had been for the last year?

Certainly, the papers and the news would reach New York once Chemco stock started to plummet. It was too big a company to just brush aside. Her friend would probably piece it together given enough time. There was really no point in hiding it, but Amelia wasn’t ready to pull off that bandaid.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to start a contingency plan. She did have an idea for a portrait she could send a picture of… just for some input at the very least. At the most? Having a painting up didn’t mean she had to live in New York.

She could visit during the exhibition.

Maybe Sherlock and John would go with her? It could be a fun trip, a little vacation after this whole hellish ordeal.

She tried to picture her friends in the streets she grew up on. The parks she frequented or the coffee shop she’d typed her thesis in.

Her friends would be jealous that she’d found such handsome Brits to settle in with, she smiled to herself.

It’d be hilarious until Sherlock started picking away at them. She could almost hear John reminding him not to be rude. That they _were_ her friends.

“ _Idiots_ ,” she was confident Sherlock would mutter. And he’d be right. The majority of her friends from New York were from old money like she was.

They weren’t very interesting or were very well-read. 

They had their money, and their trusts, and their wildly popular social media accounts. Amelia was pretty sure one of her ex-boyfriends was on a reality show now.

Maybe she wasn’t as homesick as she’d thought.

“ _Canterbury_ ,” Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened and he looked to Amelia. “You told Monty not to say anything to your cousin because you had to get home to London.”

“Yeah,” she pulled herself from her daydream in Central Park, back to the hospital room.

Back to London. Back to home.

“But, when we got back, Mrs. Hudson mentioned that Ruthie had told her father that she was disappointed we hadn’t stopped over,” he continued. “But if Monty never mentioned it...”

“Max was trailing us,” Amelia finished the thought, scowling. It made so much sense. How else would Max have been able to report so confidently back to Mrs. Hudson. Amelia certainly hadn’t told him about their excursion.

“It also explains how Moriarty knew exactly where to find you,” he added.

“They sent the arsonist as a decoy,” she realized. “To distract you.”

“Moriarty would have wanted to see you fall,” he nodded. “He must have realized that Maxwell hadn’t been totally honest when he saw John and I.”

“The decoy was Max’s idea,” Amelia surmised.

“To keep Moriarty on track,” Sherlock nodded. “He tried to play the most dangerous man of all.”

“Moriarty gets mad, brings me back, demands something he knows Max won’t be able to find,” Amelia was sitting up. “But had he accounted for _this_?”

They both looked to where John was still sleeping soundly in bed.

“We’ll have to find out,” Sherlock’s expression brightened considerably for the first time that day. _“The game is on.”_

* * *


	11. Water

* * *

_Everyone useful always dies. It’s like the universe keeps changing things in a personal challenge to Sherlock Holmes._

_Then we dragged along for the ride._

_For once, it would be nice to catch a bad guy, have him confess, clear up any confusion, and move on with our lives._

* * *

_“What?”_

Amelia gaped at Mycroft, unsure if her exhausted brain had heard him correctly.

“There was a transfer issue,” he repeated, looking none too thrilled about it. “Someone sabotaged the police car. While they tried to resolve the issue, Maxwell Brenner was shot by a sniper across the street.”

“So, he’s dead?” she asked bluntly, her expression dropping as the words left her.

“Very much so,” Mycroft nodded curtly.

Amelia looked to Sherlock, a loss at what to say.

What did this mean for the case?

Did they catch who did it?

“You didn’t catch the shooter,” Sherlock guessed, and when his brother didn’t reply, he sighed. “This certainly complicates things.”

“We still have enough evidence to shut down research and development at Chemco. The Board will be held accountable, but I’m not sure if my colleagues in the States will be able to do much.”

“Probably slap a fee on them,” Amelia sighed.

“Unless, of course, we are able to locate your mother?” he tried and Amelia just shrugged. She hadn’t heard from the woman in over a month now, going on two.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d guess that her mother had beaten Max to the grave.

James Moriarty seemed to be efficient like that.

“We have to presume Lydia Brenner is out of the picture,” Sherlock cut in. “Have you found any leads on Moriarty?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied. “He’s disappeared. Though, while I’m not a betting man, I’d put money on the fact he was behind Brenner’s untimely death.”

“Which _one_?” Amelia scoffed bitterly. “He seems determined to wipe out my lineage.”

“As soon as he makes a sound, we will know,” he assured the pair before his phone started ringing. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get in contact with your cousin.”

“I’m not convinced he has _that_ many eyes,” Amelia murmured to Sherlock once Mycroft was out of earshot.

“He doesn’t,” he agreed quietly. “He doesn’t want you to panic and run away. He’s going to need your testimony for any legal actions against Chemco.”

“Ah yes, because running did so much for me last time,” she mumbled sarcastically, looking over her shoulder into John’s room.

“He knows that as well,” Sherlock replied. “He’s being careful. Clearly, things are not going well in Her Majesty’s Government’s _Chemco Pharmaceuticals_ case.”

Amelia leaned against the hall wall, releasing a long pent up sigh and closing her eyes. Ruthie would probably want to have a funeral and invite the extended family. Do it properly.

They’d need a better story to tell everyone, no point spitting on his grave. He had more than paid for his sins as far as Amelia was concerned.

Peeking at Sherlock, she frowned. John would be in no shape to attend a memorial service this week, besides, it would be bad taste to bring the guy her felon uncle shot.

There was no way she could handle going alone, though Ruthie would definitely need her support as she buried her father. Even with the bad blood, he was family and he’d been a doting parent the vast majority of her life.

Ruthie called Amelia in tears almost immediately after speaking with Mycroft. After calming her down, she asked some basic questions, hoping to assist her cousin in whatever manner she needed.

It was Max’s wishes he is buried next to his wife at the Brenner family estate in Essex; Sirenshore.

The large manor had been in the family for generations, originally having been built for the first Brenner that found success in merchant goods and trading in the early 16th century. Max had been living there since the death of the first Maxwell Brenner, Amelia, and Ruth’s grandfather.

“Mostly contraband,” Sherlock supplied after Amelia explained the circumstances to John with a groan. She was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, with Sherlock in a chair pulled up next to them.

“So you’re _rich-rich,_ ” John translated.

“I’m comfortable,” she answered quickly.

“ _My_ family is comfortable, _your_ family has a yacht,” Sherlock added.

“Did you rent or _own_ the apartment in Brooklyn?” John asked, sitting up, he is gaze narrowed at Amelia suspiciously.

“I mean, my mom owned _the building_ ,” she explained sheepishly, twisting a nervous strand of auburn hair between her fingers. “But I did purchase the penthouse from her.”

“ _Penthouse_ ,” John repeated. “You live in a basement, but own a penthouse in Brooklyn, New York.”

“I sold it,” she protested. “I gave the money to a handful of after school programs and two large food pantries in Harlem and the Bronx.”

“And how much was _that_?”

“Do I really need to go over my finances with you, _John Hamish Watson_? When I told you we can go to Tesco without you arguing over expired clippings, I wasn’t lying.”

“Humour me,” he replied dryly.

“Just under two million,” she mumbled, looking toward the ground. “She initially sold me the property for very cheap. It was well below the market rate. And I got a steal with the present market and the realtor was a family friend…”

“American dollars?” John clarified. “Two million, _dollars_?”

“Brooklyn is in the United States, John,” she answered.

“Don’t ‘John’ me,” he held up a finger. “How much did your mother make last year?”

“I think you’ve broken him,” Sherlock commented. “John, this has never been a secret.”

“Honestly, why do you think I've been covering your portion of the rent?” she blinked at him, missing over her shoulder Sherlock’s suddenly panicked expression.

“You’ve _what_?”

“I took over your portion of the rent,” she shrugged. “It made more sense and was far less expensive overall compared to most decent places in London. Besides, you both were doing so much for me. I cover Sherlock’s too.”

“Sherlock?”

“I told you _not_ to tell him,” the detective hissed under his breath.

“What are you talking about? He had to have known, I told you to stop collecting the rent,” she frowned, looking at him quizzically. “Unless you... haven’t... been...? _Oh, Sherlock_.”

“Where is it then?” John snapped. “That isn’t an inconsiderable amount of money, Sherlock.”

“I invested it in a high yield savings-investment account,” Sherlock confessed. “I was going to give you the information at Christmas.”

“You can’t just do stuff like that without asking people!” he glared between Amelia and Sherlock.

“Why are you glaring at _me_? I think it was more than fair for the work you’ve done for this case and the friendship you’ve provided,” Amelia huffed. “I wouldn’t let my _brother_ pay rent if I could more than afford it.”

“The accounts nearly doubled,” Sherlock added, throwing on a smile at the irritated doctor. “ _Happy Christmas_.”

“You two-,” he groaned, falling back against his pillows with a groan. “I don’t know how you don’t see it.”

“It was a transactional situation,” Amelia continued, clapping her hands together. “If it bothers you, you’re welcome to go back to paying rent.”

“I have been!”

“That’s between you two,” she stood up, pointing between the men. “ _I’m_ the bigger person here, and I’m going to get hot cocoa for myself as a reward for my good deeds. Do either of you need anything?”

“I’ll take some chips,” Sherlock piped up.

“That was more rhetorical, but John? You do look a little pale,” she frowned sympathetically.

“A sandwich or something would be nice,” he admitted quietly.

“Roast beef?”

“If they have it,” he smiled after her as she left.

“Why aren’t you mad at her anymore?”

“Because she wasn’t stealing my money,” John returned his glare to Sherlock. “ _Four months_.”

“Here,” Sherlock handed him his mobile, a large number on the screen.

“What’s this?”

“The account balance,” he answered, arching a brow.

“ _Oh_ ,” John's eyes widened. “That’s a lot more than four months of rent.”

“Believe it or not, I’m quite proficient at understanding the stock market,” Sherlock took the device back and pocketed it. “I’ve helped Amelia with some financial decisions as well.”

“I still can’t believe you knew about this,” John sighed.

“Wait until you see what she bought you for Christmas,” Sherlock snickered.

“Isn’t it a bit strange? She could have gotten a much nicer place, hired a security detail, but settled with us,” John mused, snorting under his breath. He leaned back in his pillows, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Not at all,” Sherlock shook his head. “She trusts us. Haven’t you noticed how jumpy she gets outside of Baker Street? Of course, if one of us is with her, she’s ok, but the further we go...”

“That explains Canterbury,” John hummed, nodding to himself. “Of course.”

“She knows Mycroft and his men are swarming the halls, so she offers to get food,” Sherlock added. “And the cafeteria is only one floor down.”

“She doesn’t think she needs to _buy_ our affection, does she?” John voiced, looking to Sherlock in concern.

“ _No_ ,” he crossed his arms, leaning back. “That generosity and affection just happen naturally, I think. She’d be knitting us scarves and making biscuits otherwise.”

“Shame so many people want to kill her,” John joked dryly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone kind was killed by petty vengeance.”

“Well, not on our watch,” John cleared his throat determinedly.

* * *

“The funeral is this Sunday,” Amelia looked to the calendar on her cell phone. “That means I’ve got to get to Canterbury by tomorrow night, help organize things on Saturday, and Sunday is the big day.”

She plopped backward on the sofa, pulling her blankets over her head.

Despite the excellent job Mycroft’s men had done in cleaning up her apartment, she still felt uneasy sleeping alone in the distant space. She barely slept as it was since John’s accident, but over the last few days she’d set up a small spot on the worn sofa.

Usually, if she was asleep, Sherlock was up tinkering around, and vice versa.

It was oddly comforting knowing that if someone were to burst through the front door of Baker Street, he would be right there.

“Are we staying the night after the funeral?”

“We?” Amelia pulled the blanket off her face, looking up at him curiously. “I cannot ask you to attend the funeral of the man who nearly killed your best friend.”

“I would have gone anyway,” he shrugged casually. “Which tie should I wear? I have a tasteful burgundy one that Mrs. Hudson gave me for Christmas last year that I haven’t an opportunity to wear.”

Amelia ducked under the blanket again, smiling to herself like an idiot.

“You look best in the short-sleeved black dress,” he continued musing. “If you wear a charcoal sweater with _that_ , perhaps the gunmetal grey tie instead.”

As miserable as this event was bound to be, perhaps it wasn’t going to be _that_ terrible.

* * *


	12. Lies

* * *

_I’ll admit, I’m not as good at writing these things as John is. However, he’s still admitted to the hospital and is unable to attend Sirenshore with Amelia and me._

_The legal case against Chemco has continued, with a large manhunt announced for Lydia Brenner in both the United States and the United Kingdom._

_Amelia had joked that perhaps her mother would turn up at the funeral out of respect for her older brother. I didn’t account for the humorous anecdote in my own considerations, however, as improbable as it would be, I’ve found the Brenner family to consistently act emotionally._

_I have to take the suggestion as seriously as any other, just to be sure._

* * *

“I haven’t been out here since I was a kid,” Amelia was gazing out the window of the rental car, watching the rolling hills Sherlock navigated through. “It’s prettier than I remember, even without the leaves on the trees.”

“Lots of sheep,” he added bitterly, slowing behind a farmer and his flock. A low sigh of irritation passed his lips with a scowl.

“The house is by the water at least,” Amelia glanced over apologetically. “Far fewer sheep in the Channel, or so I’ve heard.”

“ _Hilarious_ ,” he answered, swerving around the large crowd of sheep and continuing down the country road.

“Ruthie said the new chef is really good,” Amelia continued to babble aimlessly. She was obviously nervous, and while normally Sherlock would have been annoyed by the incessant noise, it provided a nice ground for him to focus on while driving.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Sherlock found himself cutting in while she talked about a great aunt that was due to attend the funeral.

“These are some of the worst people I’ve encountered in my life,” she muttered, sinking into her seat. “We’re literally wandering into a pit of vipers.”

“We could go back to London,” he offered, albeit too optimistically.

“You’re welcome to,” Amelia gave him a sad smile. “I need to be here for Ruthie. I can’t let her face these monsters alone. It wouldn’t be right.”

Looking at her, Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt for so easily suggesting they go home. Of course, she was going to stand by her cousin despite her own misery. She was stubbornly loyal to those she loved, he knew that well.

“I want to look through his study,” he cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the road. “I promised Mycroft I’d inform him if I found anything.”

She made a noise of acknowledgment, her attention now lost as they approached the large winding road leading up to the estate. Massive trees bordered the drive, with rolling fields that cut off at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean.

There was a foreboding feeling that settled over the car, the manor ahead cloaked in a blanket of fog from the shore, with dark clouds rolling in toward them.

“The family cemetery,” Amelia pointed over his shoulder where a group of men were measuring out a spot for what he assumed was Maxwell. “Stables, the garden…”

It was an impressive plot of land, far grander than Amelia’s hesitant descriptions had painted it.

“Ruthie told everyone it was a hunting accident,” she supplied when he pulled the car to a stop at the entrance of the manor. “The only people who know the truth are us, her, and Frank.”

It made sense to come up with a cover story. The allegations were fresh, and there wasn’t a good enough reason to sully the reputation of a man who’d only recently fallen to corruption in his life (or so it seemed).

Sherlock took both of their bags, ignoring Amelia’s insistence she could carry her own. They’d barely made it up the steps to the house when Ruthie opened the door and hugged her cousin with tears in her eyes.

She looked awful. She must have spent several hours crying, and given the sway to her walk, she likely sought comfort in the manor’s wine cellar.

“I’m so sorry,” Amelia pulled her cousin into her arms, rubbing a loving hand over Ruthie’s shoulders, the other woman shaking with sobs. “I’m so sorry…”

Frank appeared in the door, glancing from the women to Sherlock with a somber expression. He gestured for Sherlock to come inside, leaving the two Brenner women to their privacy.

“It’s been hard,” Frank offered a space to set the bags. “Monty got here this morning to watch Tommy while we deal with all of the planning and final directives. She’s just been a mess.”

“It’s unusual circumstances,” Sherlock noted lightly, taking in the massive entryway that led to a more intimate sitting room.

“I’m glad you two were able to get here early,” he took a relieved sigh. “I’m at my wit's end. Glass of scotch?”

Sherlock took the drink politely, barely touching it while Frank filled him in on everything that had happened since Ruth and Amelia last spoke.

“Your brother is going to be stopping by tomorrow,” he added, taking a large swallow of his drink, quickly refilling his crystal glass. “He found Lydia.”

That caught Sherlock’s attention. The detective turned around in surprise.

“ _Alive_?” he asked, much to the amusement of his host. Frank chuckled and nodded.

“She turned herself in after hearing the news of Max,” he explained. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He called up this morning.”

Surprised? Sherlock snorted. _Hardly_.

Pulling out his mobile, he typed out a quick message to Mycroft, demanding an explanation. Almost immediately, there was a buzz of notification.

**I thought it’d be a lovely family reunion.** ****

**-MH**

So _that_ was it. Mycroft didn’t trust any of the Brenner’s, Amelia included. Which meant, he would be keeping things from Sherlock due to their association.

What an idiot.

Sending back a snarky reply, the voices of Amelia and Ruth floated into the room, the front door closing behind them.

“We have the two of you set up in the East Wing suite,” Ruth was explaining, the women arm in arm.

“We could have taken a sofa,” Amelia smiled, rubbing her cousin’s arm affectionately. “You’re too sweet.”

“It’s more private than the other rooms,” Frank added, a sloppy wink in Sherlock’s direction.

“Oh-,” Amelia quickly caught the exchange and cut in. “We’re not- that’s not- _we’re friends._ ”

Ruth looked horrified as Amelia stumbled through the explanation of their relationship, which left a strange hollowness in Sherlock’s chest.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Ruth squeezed her hand. “The other rooms won’t be ready until tomorrow afternoon, and they’re all set aside for the rest of the guests.”

“It’s okay,” Amelia assured her, a chipper smile fixed on her face. “I wasn’t joking about the sofa. We’ll make it work.”

Ruth suggested they settle in a bit before dinner, promising a large seafood spread and the best wine she could track down.

A maid showed them to their room, an isolated suite at the far east side of the house. There were a few rooms scattered in the hall, but once they entered the suite, Sherlock understood what Frank had meant by privacy.

The bedroom was in the very back of the ornate space, with a large sitting room taking up the entrance. Already, it seemed that someone had taken the consideration to start a fire in each of the four fireplaces.

The maid excused herself, leaving the pair to explore the large chambers.

“I can sleep on the chaise,” Amelia called from one of the rooms. “It’s bigger than my bed at home. Plus, you can’t pass up the opportunity to sleep on the beds here.”

“What kind of boyfriend would I be to make you sleep on a chaise?” Sherlock joked, following her laughter to a small study tucked next to the bedroom.

“I’m sorry about the confusion,” she answered, draped over the chaise next to the fire. “I’ll make sure the record is definitively set at dinner."

He waved her concerns off, distracting himself with a large grandfather clock at the edge of the room.

“Don’t pay it much mind,” he assured her. “We have other matters to focus on.”

“Like burying my murdered uncle,” she chimed up. When he didn’t agree, she sat up in the chair. “ _And what else?_ ”

“Mycroft has stumbled upon something,” he replied vaguely, still fiddling with the clock.

“And what’s that?” her voice rose in pitch. _Nervous_.

“Your mother,” he answered, listening for a reaction from his companion. He felt a little bad throwing the information on her like this, but it was better to get it out of the way. In private.

“ _Oh_ ,” she simply replied. “Does that mean… she’s coming to the funeral..?”

“I would imagine,” he finally turned around to find Amelia sitting with her elbows on her knees, staring off in the distance.

Lost in thought.

“What time did they say we were having dinner?” she asked after a pause of silence.

“In an hour,” he replied with a glance at the clock over his shoulder.

“ _Ah_ ,” she stood up, adjusting the scarf and collar of her coat. “I’m gonna take a little walk, I’ll see you at dinner.”

She looked like she was just floating through space, stepping past Sherlock, and leaving the room without another word.

* * *

Amelia missed dinner, having texted Sherlock that she wasn’t very hungry. No one seemed to notice the lack of presence with Frank and Monty quizzing Sherlock on a recent murder in Edinburgh. Ruth just stared at her wine glass, and Tommy would occasionally chime in with a comment about his favorite color or his mismatched socks.

He decided after eating to track her down, even though the sun had set over the grounds, and cloaked the space in darkness.

He didn’t like the brisk text message or the fact she had been ignoring his response.

When he tried calling her, the phone went straight to voicemail.

It didn’t settle right with him.

He started with the garden, a logical place he could expect to find the flora enthusiast. Searching the whole area, he found no trace of her.

It wasn’t ideal at all. He started for the stables, quietly searching each stall, and finding nothing.

The small parish was empty, the storage house was eerily silent, and finally, he found _nothing_ in the boathouse at the edge of the shoreline.

He was about to give up his search when the breeze threw a large crimson cloth at his waist.

Her scarf.

Following the direction of the wind down the shore, he found a small enclave with a figure sitting on a large rock, staring at the moon over the water.

“Lose something?” he tried to keep the concern out of his voice when she glanced up at him in surprise. He moved closer and saw that her cheeks were red from tears and she’d pulled off her boot, her ankle being soothed between her hands.

Wiping at her cheeks angrily, she scoffed under her breath.

“ _I forgot the drop_ ,” she admitted miserably, pointing to the steep drop off above her. “When it got dark, I was trying to find my phone in my pocket for a light and slipped.”

She nodded to the shattered mobile next to her.

“I caught my ankle on the ledge,” she added, lightly touching the tender limb. She hissed under her breath at the touch. Even at the distance, when he turned the flashlight on his phone, he could see how swollen the injury was.

Sherlock sighed, dropping down next to her and gesturing for her to set her ankle in his lap.

“Do you have any idea how worried I- _Ruth was?_ ” he demanded, using his light to better examine the injury. It didn’t look the best, but he was pretty confident it wasn’t a break. Using the scarf, he wrapped a makeshift brace around it, helping her tuck it back into her boot.

“I didn’t think anyone would have gone this far down the beach,” she replied softly, a low chuckle when he helped her up, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I had just accepted an overly dramatic corpse that died for incredibly stupid reasons by the water.”

When she leaned in, Sherlock was hit with the scent of sunflowers mixed with sea salt. Adjusting her out of the breeze, they started the trek back to the manor.

“You’re lucky I bothered checking on you,” he continued to lecture, the pair struggling through the loose sand.

“I figured after the night, _someone_ would have gotten worried,” she teased, nearly falling over when she slipped with her good foot in the sand.

Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock scooped her up, carrying her bridal style the remainder of the way.

“This is humiliating,” Amelia complained continuously, quickly protesting when he began to lower her back to the ground. “This isn’t going to do a good job of convincing my family we aren’t an item.”

“Who cares,” came his honest response. By the time they reached the house, one of the housekeepers informed the pair everyone was in their respective rooms for the evening.

She helped Sherlock get Amelia to the suite, and brought back a few supplies so he could properly wrap and ice the injury.

“I think you’re going to live,” Sherlock stated decidedly, studying the injury in the brighter light. “I do think we should go to town tomorrow and have it professionally examined, just to be sure.”

“If we time it right, maybe we can avoid Mycroft’s visit.”

“Even so, if your mother is staying for the funeral, she’ll likely be spending the night,” he replied.

“Always gotta ruin my excitement,” she grumbled, laying on her back on the large bed.

He wrapped the ankle with a proper bandage, elevated it, and instructed Amelia to ice it for twenty minutes.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, pulling off his coat and tossing it over a nearby chair.

The question came as a surprise to Amelia who started to decline, but her stomach gave a large growl of protest.

“Ignore it,” she insisted when he started for the door, sitting up quickly. “I’m really _fine_ , don’t worry about it.”

He rolled his eyes, exiting the room and starting for where he guessed the kitchen was located.

The house had been incredibly well kept over the years. He could see where panels of wood had been diligently replaced, windows cleaned spotless, crisp paint on the walls, and not a speck of dust to be seen. Centuries of artifacts decorated the hall, from ornate 17th-century tapestries to trinkets from all over the world.

He was looking at a Nigerian tribal mask when the housekeeper from earlier intercepted him.

“19th century,” she explained over his shoulder. “A gift to Robert Henley Brenner, the late Maxwell Brenner the First’s father.”

“A gift?” Sherlock arched a brow, not quite believing the explanation given the Brenner family history of malice and manipulation.

“There were a few good ones,” she joked, quickly looking over her shoulder to see if anyone else heard her.

“What about your late employer?” Sherlock asked when she offered to guide him to the kitchens. “The third Maxwell Brenner.”

“I _did_ hear what happened in London,” she confessed. “He and Lydia had an agreement regarding their father’s will, with her serving as the face while he worked behind the scenes. There hadn’t been much of an issue until he got caught up with the board demanding increased quarter profits moving forward.”

“There are only so many products one could sell,” Sherlock noted with a hum.

“I’m aware of your reputation Mr. Holmes, so I would imagine you’re familiar with the merger with the NHS?” she asked, stopping and looking at him directly.

“Amelia mentioned it,” he replied.

“That was brokered by a man with some government connections,” she supplied, lowering her voice significantly. “We were instructed to go about our daily tasks without any explanation as to who he was. They met multiple times in Max’s study.”

“You never learned his name?” Sherlock pried.

“It never came up,” she admitted bitterly. “Though I’m not so ignorant as to ignore the very obvious pattern that’s arisen over the last few days.”

“You knew he was murdered,” Sherlock stated while she nodded.

“And then Miss Mia arrives with London’s famous detective in tow?” she chuckled under her breath. “I’m surprised the rest of the staff hasn’t figured it out. This family is infamous for its intrigue and lies.”

“When was the last time the man came by?” Sherlock asked firmly.

“The day before Max left for the dinner in London,” she answered confidently. “They were arguing, _lots of shouting_ , before the man left in a right foul mood.”

That was all of the information she had to give him, but once they arrived at the kitchen, she introduced herself more formally as the head housekeeper, Mallory Heath, and promised to “keep an ear to the ground” during the events of the weekend.

More or less, she’d confirmed what Amelia had said about Max working with Moriarty, even if names weren’t specifically mentioned. He would just have to poke around Max’s study when the family was distracted with the memorial to confirm any records and confirm a motive.

When he returned to the suite, he heard the distinct sound of Amelia snoring. He had started to recognize it after she’d picked up the habit of only sleeping when he was around. He certainly didn’t miss that it had started directly after John had been shot.

Still, she must have been exhausted if she had fallen asleep in her winter coat, a bundle of ice in her hand.

Nudging her arm, she startled awake, yawning and smiling up at him appreciatively when she spotted the large plate of food in his hand.

“You’re an angel,” she sighed, taking the plate, and sitting up. “Thank you.”

While she ate, Sherlock pulled out his laptop and dropped onto the bed next to her.It was, admittedly, a _very_ comfortable bed. Much larger than his own king-sized mattress at home and significantly plusher. 

“Has Mycroft said anything to you about what my mother has said?” she asked quietly, nibbling on a large dinner roll.

“No,” came his deflated response. “I think he’s suspicious of something though. Why else would he attend this circus personally?”

“Then she either lied or this is still ongoing,” she reasoned lightly. “Granted, it was with Moriarty anyway. Maybe she’s confirming the details?”

“I hoped you might be able to find that out,” he replied, looking over. “I spoke with the housekeeper and she all but confirmed Moriarty’s presence here the day before Harvest Festival. If your mother can reliably affirm their connection, the motive behind Max’s demise is obvious.”

“And just what? _Ask her?_ ” she looked scandalized by the very idea.

“She spoke to my brother, _willingly_ ,” he answered. “A change of heart, perhaps?”

“Or Moriarty has a gun pointed at her head and Mycroft’s position offers her an opportunity to disappear,” Amelia shot back. “She isn’t exactly mother of the year. Or Mother Theresa."

“At least she isn’t dead,” Sherlock hummed in response. “There’ll likely be a trial in the States. And Chemco will be hit with more aggressive legal action here.”

“I’ll _try_ ,” Amelia set her empty plate on the nightstand next to the bed. Peeling off her coat, she threw it on the floor and fell back against the fluffy pillows behind her. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

“I’m _always_ nice to you.”

“Mmm,” she closed her eyes, lifting the covers and snuggling underneath. “I’ll let _that_ slide for today since you’re being so nice.”

“I should have left you on the beach,” he mused, opening a case file Lestrade had emailed over while they were out.

“ _So_ nice,” she rolled on her side, humming the words under her breath. “Mr. Sherlock _Niceguy_ Holmes.”

He watched her until her breathing fell even, and he was sure she’d fallen back asleep. After the events of the day, plus the traveling, he was surprised she’d made it that long without sleeping.

Making a note to relocate after he was done working on the new case, he started digging into the triple homicide with interest.

* * *

It was sunrise when he woke up. His laptop was folded shut next to his legs, and Amelia had found her way to his side of the bed, wrapping herself around his waist.

At some point, he must have crawled under the large duvet as well, the warmth of his companion's body flush against him. It was undeniably _cozy_.

He closed his eyes again, listening to her steady breathing mixed with the sounds of the early morning.

Peaceful. He could actually hear himself think amongst the chirping birds outside.

This mixed with the scent of clean linens with Amelia’s subtle floral scent created an almost perfect atmosphere to wake up to.

In the back of his mind, he wondered why he was never as refreshed in the morning at home.

Amelia shifted in her sleep, nearly knocking the laptop off the bed.

Catching it silently, Sherlock set it on the floor next to the bed, attempting to slide out and get ready for the day.

Instead, Amelia pulled him back, nestling deeper next to him with a grumble of discontentment.

Considering his options, he moved back into place, snuggling under the covers and waiting for her to fall still again.

 _This was nice,_ he realized when she pressed back up against him, bringing back the warmth from earlier. He’d never liked sharing a bed with someone before. Even when he’d taken the brief nap at the hospital to sleep off his drugging, it was with significant hesitation.

But, then again, he had slept like a baby that day, and this, clearly, was not an exception to his unwitting experiment in sharing his space.

Before Sherlock knew it, he was slipping back into a contented sleep, his arm lazily thrown around Amelia’s back.

* * *


	13. Circus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter than usual to make up for the brief hiatus I'm going to take next week!   
> I've been too distracted by this story to actually sit down and work on my law school application essays sooooo I'm forcing myself to do it the mean way. 
> 
> This means if I post a new chapter before next Sunday (without confirming I finished my apps), feel free to make me feel bad about not thinking about my future. 
> 
> Enjoy and let me know your thoughts! <3

* * *

_Why_ _John asked me to write this blog post is beyond me. I mean, what is there to say? My family is insane, my life is incrementally growing weirder and weirder by the day, and I’m trash at interpersonal relationships, apparently._

_Frankly, I’m just ready to get back to London, hide in my basement, and crawl under the bed until my absolute mortification is over._

_Just awful._

_And I’m convinced that Dr. John Watson is getting some sort of amusement from all of this, what with his texts of “told you”, “you’re overthinking this”, and “stop being crazy”._

* * *

Amelia woke up with a yawn, her eyes focusing on Sherlock watching her a few inches away.

“Hello,” she greeted sleepily. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so warm?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re such a bed hog?” he chided in response, gesturing to the large empty portion she’d started on.

“It’s your fault,” she insisted with a light laugh. “If you’d have met in the middle, we wouldn’t have had this problem.”

“What happened to sleeping on the chaise?”

“I’m damaged goods, Sherlock, I couldn’t sleep _there_ ,” she sighed dramatically, rolling to her side of the bed with an exaggerated shiver. “And now _I’m cold_.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he replied.

“And to think, I shared my hospital bed in your time of need,” she supplied with a long sigh, snuggling deeper into the covers. _“I’ll just freeze to death.”_

“I think you should remember that I’m the reason you didn’t freeze to death on a beach last night,” he grumbled, his side of the bed shifting before Amelia felt his arms pull her to his chest. “Happy?”

“Mmmhm,” she replied, snuggling in deeper with a sigh.

“I hope your cousin comes in,” he murmured.

“I’ll be sure to be completely nude before she gets to the room,” Amelia promised with a whisper.

“Not if I beat you to it,” he threatened in return.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Holmes,” she rolled to face him, smirking. “What _ever_ would poor John say if _I tarnished your virtue?”_

“He’d be more upset with me,” he pointed out.

“No, he’d _probably_ complain it took long enough."

They held eye contact.

Amelia suddenly felt very aware of how close they were under the blankets, but her body refused to move. It was as if she’d been struck by some spell, locking her in his blue gaze, unable to pull free.

And, _she didn’t mind_.

She caught her focus fall to his lips, a brief thought of a kiss fluttering through her mind, building when he brought a hand to her cheek.

Her whole body stilled.

Her heartbeat picking up pace, her eyes following it across the small space between them.

“You have some drool-,” he muttered, wiping at her cheek, face contorted in mild disgust.

As if her unconscious rejected everything that had just happened, Amelia sprang out of bed, dropping to the ground the second her damaged foot touched the hardwood.

“I forgot-,” she started after a sharp yelp. She could hear Sherlock stepping out of bed. 

“ _You forgot about the foot,_ ” he finished, stopping at her side of the bed and taking in her crumpled body on the floor, hands on his hips. “Hopefully, you didn’t cause more unnecessary damage.”

Amelia grumbled under her breath when he helped her back to her feet, guiding her to the chaise in the other room, and grabbing her overnight bag so she could get ready.

“I’ll call to see where we can go in town,” he offered, pausing while she parsed through her bag. “And we’ll find another mobile for you.”

“Sounds good,” she kept her head down, pretending to fuss with the items in her bag to avoid adding to her humiliation.

Did he notice? she wondered after he parted the room, muttering about a shower. He noticed _everything_ but did he notice her irrational emotions? He did have the emotional maturity of a six-year-old, after all. 

She must have been overly emotional with everything going on. She took a long breath.

Vulnerable. _Needy_.

Having practically lived on top of Sherlock and John for the last few months, it was logical that there’d be some misplaced intimacy or something.

Though she’d never felt that way around John...

Pausing to picture a romantic scene with the doctor, she shook her head, rummaging through her bag to find some clean clothes. It wasn’t like she didn’t like John, it just… he was like an older brother.

Picturing Sherlock, _however_... all she could see was that thin smile in the corner of her eye. The slight sparkle in his eye when a case became interesting, those _dumb_ , unwieldy curls.

Pulling off her sweater, the smell of pine, aftershave, and fireplace smoke buzzed through her mind, sending her sense haywire. She could close her eyes and know exactly who it belonged to, and infuriatingly, it blended well with her own perfume.

This was bad.

She was getting distracted by these momentary feelings because she was _lonely_ because she was scared. It couldn’t be genuine. She would have known, she wasn’t dumb after all. She’d had crushes and one night stands that left with nothing- emotional outbursts settled with some physical attention.

This was just fleeting and silly.

* * *

To her surprise, they were able to track down a decent cell phone, as well as a small clinic that was open on Saturdays.

The doctor confirmed it wasn’t a break, though he did recommend a large plastic boot for the next week to keep the ankle from rolling any further.

“ _Awesome_ ,” Amelia laughed at herself, wobbling out of the small clinic, leaning on Sherlock’s arm. “Hopefully, I don’t need to outrun an ax murderer.”

“I’ll figure it out before they chase you,” Sherlock promised, a small smile tugging at the edge of his features as Amelia clambered into the passenger seat.

“If all goes as planned, ideally, we bury my uncle tomorrow, and get back to London,” she replied. She wasn’t thrilled about going back to Sirenshore, where Sherlock confirmed her mother and Mycroft were waiting- _mingling_ with her family. “No running. No ax murderers.”

She wasn’t worried about Frank or Ruthie; her biggest concern was her mother. How did she negotiate with the government to get leave to see her brother be buried? What did she know?

It was like the final piece of the puzzle was waiting for them and Amelia felt nauseous over that it would reveal.

“Lydia is under strict watch,” Sherlock reminded her on the drive back to the house. “She can’t do anything, even if she wanted to.”

“I haven’t seen her in months,” Amelia muttered. It was the longest time she’d gone without seeing her mother, which given their tense relationship, was both a relief and a new, worrying, variable. “Maybe she isn’t a psycho anymore?”

Amelia felt like a different person from the naive young woman she’d been before coming to London. So much had changed.

_How had it changed for her mother?_

Amelia was pulled from her thoughts when the car came to a stop and she realized they’d returned.

“Any final words of encouragement?” she asked him, trying to keep a light tone despite the heaviness in her chest.

“Hear her out,” he simply replied. “Don’t get too worked up and miss something essential.”

Nodding, Amelia stepped out of the car, hobbling her way to the front of the house with Sherlock’s help on the stairs. They were greeted by Mallory at the door, the woman sharing a bitter frown between the pair before guiding them toward the sitting room at the back of the manor.

“Ah, Amelia,” Ruthie was on her feet, helping Amelia to a chair before she could get a word in. “What did the doctor say?”

“A nasty sprain,” Amelia reported, thanking her cousin and looking around the room. Ruthie, Mycroft, and her mother were seated around another large fireplace, each with a glass of red wine in their hands. Flanking the various corners of the room were three suited men, their arms folded behind their backs.

“I’m relieved to hear it wasn’t serious,” Lydia voiced, lifting her glass in Amelia’s direction. “Your great-uncle Barton broke his femur after slipping on one of those cliffs when he was a teenager.”

Amelia became acutely aware of the eyes that fell on her after Lydia finished speaking.

“I’m lucky it wasn’t too steep,” she agreed tersely, her hands folding tightly together in her lap. Was there a little more grey in her mother’s bright red hair?

“Mycroft, could we speak privately?” Sherlock asked over Amelia’s shoulder.

“Why I was just going to suggest the same thing,” Mycroft set his glass on a nearby table and stood up. “If you will excuse us.”

With the Holmes brothers out of the room, the tension grew considerably between the women. Amelia avoided eye contact with her mom and Lydia sipped casually at her drink.

“One of you needs to say _something_ ,” Ruthie cut in, breaking the silence. “Lydia, I know you owe Amelia the same explanation you gave me, and Amelia, I just ask that you _listen_.”

She started to stand, but Amelia found her voice and held up a hand.

“Wait, _stay_ ,” she asked in a panic. She hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but the way Ruthie looked at her suggested she looked just as pathetic as she felt.

“Are you sure?” she looked to Lydia who shrugged with indifference.

“Keep us civil,” her mother suggested, gesturing back to Ruthie’s chair. “Now where to begin...”

“Why did you agree to add the spores to the drugs?” Amelia cut to the chase, straightening her spine, and adjusting her body language as she’d seen Sherlock and John do when interrogating a suspect. _Confidence_.

“Ah,” Lydia uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, setting her glass aside. “That’s...”

“That’s the whole reason we’re here,” Amelia shot back sharply, earning a pointed glare from Ruthie who mouthed “ _don’t be a cunt_ ” toward her cousin.

“I know, I know,” Lydia nodded. “The new board had wanted to see improved numbers after we secured some contracts in the NHS. I suggested a nutritional additive initially, something that would work to boost the immune system in compromised patients. That, unfortunately, ended up being too expensive.”

She let out a long sigh, pouring more wine into her glass, and taking a large swallow.

“After I’d gone over the numbers with my assistant, I contacted Max to get his opinion. It turned out he’d been working with one of the board members- some biotech hotshot- on new ideas. He mentioned that he was solidifying a contract with the NHS, and just needed a final confirmation that our bid had been accepted. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but the rival company vying for the contract had backed out suddenly after their CFO died.”

Amelia knew about the CFO death and the seemingly “random” deaths of other industry leaders in similar circumstances. She’d just assumed it had been her mother ruthlessly knocking out industry rivals.

“That was the data I was _trying_ to show you,” Amelia huffed and Lydia looked up apologetically at her daughter. “It wasn’t just the CFO of that company, Max must have moved through at least four other major players before I’d confronted you.”

“I didn’t piece it together until it was too late,” Lydia agreed quietly. “Once we secured the contract, Max kept mentioning the side effects of the new chemotherapy that we’d been testing. It was surprisingly effective at destabilizing cancerous cells, but he grumbled on and on about cardiovascular side effects. I put you on the research team because I had wanted to introduce the therapy exclusively within the NHS.”

“You didn’t authorize the spores to be introduced?” Amelia asked a deep frown etched into her expression. “It was given the go-ahead from the top.”

“Max had just as much pull as I did,” Lydia replied, her posture deflating. She looked tired and smaller than Amelia could ever remember her. “When your grandpa died, he originally gave the controlling shares to Max.”

Amelia thought she knew the story, at least, that was what she’d told herself after Max had filled her in when she first moved to the UK. Her mom litigated and got his shares.

“He was resentful that traded my wedding budget for an MBA,” she continued. “I didn’t want to marry your father, bless his heart, but he wasn’t a husband. I knew what I wanted and it didn’t involve darning socks and having dinner ready.”

_That_ … hadn’t totally surprised Amelia. She and Ruthie had grown up with tales of their strict, mean, grandfather. Distantly, she could recall a few swats to the bum when she “misbehaved” as a small child in front of him. He was as traditional as could be imaged for a man of his class and age.

“He knew I’d worked my adult life for an executive position within Chemco, but he kept it out of reach, giving it to Max, who never had any interest in leading a multi-billion dollar company,” her hands folded in her lap, similar to how Amelia was sitting. Unsure. Uneasy.

_Nervous_?

“We split responsibilities,” Lydia took a long breath. “Shared day to day research and product discussions. While I focused on leadership and development, he handled the financing and overall profits. It was a good arrangement for the majority of our business partnership. I was never a numbers person, and he was never a people person.”

“Then what happened?” Amelia asked, genuinely entranced in the story. It made so much sense, but still, she was hesitant in embracing this new side to her mother fully. Not without proof.

“James Moriarty happened,” Sherlock announced, entering the room with a dramatic flair. “ _He_ was the one who arranged the contract with the NHS, wasn’t he?”

In his hand, Amelia vaguely caught the glimpse of a bundle of paper with large lettering and signatures scribbled across the surface.

“He was,” Lydia confirmed. “Max went over my head to make the arrangement. You see, when you’re in a corporate position, there are certain names that pop up and you’re warned by colleagues to avoid. _James Moriarty_ was one of them.”

Amelia let out a held breath, leaning back in her chair with wide eyes, digesting what her mother had just said.

“I met him _once_ ,” she added. “In this very room, the day we signed the final paperwork confirming the arrangement.” Her eyes drifted to the paperwork in Sherlock’s hand.

"He didn’t ask for anything, just quietly bought shares in Chemco. We’d been fools though. He was ten steps ahead of us the whole time, the majority of the board had been bought out by him when we weren’t looking, long before he showed up on our radar.”

“Maxwell became his puppet,” Sherlock stated to the group. “He feared for his family, he feared for his life, and then his niece calls about possible fraud and sabotage in research and development.”

“I’d tried cutting him out once the agreement with Moriarty had been made,” Lydia lifted her wine glass and took a long swallow.

“That’s what you meant by ‘ask your uncle’,” Amelia realized in shock. “I thought you were threatening my life.”

“I didn’t want you to get involved in anything those two were plotting,” Lydia supplied softly, chuckling at Amelia’s extreme interpretation. “I’d seen the notes you’d sent over before our meeting and I knew it wasn’t good. I intended to take care of it internally before anyone would get hurt. After you’d left for London, I understood the full extent of everything."

“But what I don’t understand is outside of profits, what did Moriarty seek to gain through all of this?” Amelia looked to the Holmes brothers with a quirked brow. “He has plenty of money, and the contract with the NHS was plenty lucrative for the shareholders.”

“He was seeking power, Dr. Brenner,” Mycroft stepped forward, his hands tucked behind his back. “He’d planted himself in many influential circles, offering different estates opportunities to work with him as a finance consultant. Estates that had elderly holders who would, statistically, be prone to cancers and other ailments.”

“He wanted to kill them faster and take their influence,” Amelia translated to herself, awestruck.

“We’re talking MPs, Lords and Ladies, Dukes, and tech millionaires,” Sherlock confirmed with a curt nod of his head.

“I can’t believe I thought this was over profit for Chemco,” Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes with a long sigh.

“While a bit misguided, you saved hundreds of thousands of lives the world over, Dr. Brenner,” Mycroft turned to face her. “Between your research and the test Sherlock developed while you were in the hospital, we’ve made significant progress in our case against Moriarty.”

“When I heard about the fire at the shop, I knew you’d stumbled into something,” Lydia added. “I tried calling. I wanted to clear up any confusion, but then you’d gotten sick… I was beside myself with guilt, Amelia.”

“It was blessing in disguise,” Amelia tried to assure her, but Sherlock cut her off before she could add anything else.

“If you were aware, why didn’t you visit?” he demanded sharply.

“Because someone had tried to kill my daughter on behalf of my company, Mr. Holmes,” Lydia’s gaze narrowed. “I’m not so foolish to think I was remotely safe enough to visit her. My assistant confirmed she was in safe hands and working actively with the government, so I kept under the radar and sought out my own internal evidence to prove my innocence and clear up the confusion.”

“Good enough for me,” Sherlock looked to Amelia who nodded slowly, her attention fixed on her mother.

She felt like an overconfident idiot.

“And now my da’s dead and the rest of my line’s on this maniac’s chopping block,” Ruthie raised her glass to the group, downing the drink in a single swallow.

“I’m not sure what you mean?” Lydia looked between Ruthie and Mycroft. “I came to an agreement with the older Mr. Holmes that I would fall under his protection. Amelia no longer has anything to do with this.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Amelia caught herself saying, stopping when her mother’s worried eyes fell on her. “You didn’t say anything?” The question was directed to Mycroft who stuttered out an answer.

“It didn’t seem relevant at the time,” he cleared his throat. “You are more than welcome to inform her, however.”

_“_ This is _priceless_ ,” Ruthie snorted, pouring another large glass of wine. “Who’d've thought the infamous Holmes’ were just as bad at communication as _our_ family?”

Mycroft shot her a pointed glare, whereas Sherlock nodded in a feigned solemn frown.

“Maybe we should have an early dinner?” Amelia suggested, moving to stand up, balancing herself on her booted foot. “We can go over everything afterward.”

The group came to a terse agreement to discharge for supper, with Sherlock, Amelia, and Lydia lingering in the room once the others had left.

“You’re on _his_ radar, aren’t you?” her mother guessed and while her attention was on Sherlock, her question had been for Amelia.

“It’s all a bit tangled together,” Amelia admitted, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly.

“I’ve read your blog, Mr. Holmes,” Lydia stated, her gaze still locked on the detective. “I understand you have a bit of a past with Jim Moriarty, is that true?”

Under the woman’s scrutinizing eyes, Sherlock didn’t waver.

“It is,” he answered.

“And can I have your word that you will keep my daughter safe?” Lydia asked, her eyes searching his expression for any hint of dishonesty.

“On my life,” he replied without a single hesitation.

* * *

After eating, Ruthie and Frank were caught up in finalizing details for the service the next day. Sherlock and Mycroft had gone to sort through the physical files Lydia had given him, setting up shop in Max’s old study, and Monty took Tommy to town with one of the cooks (who he seemed smitten with) to get ice cream.

This left Amelia and Lydia alone, walking arm and arm toward the private beach at the edge of the property. Over the water, the sun was just trying to set, sending a splash of pinks and oranges through the sky, a warmer setting than what Amelia had initially wandered into.

“The Holmes’ are a good, reputable, family,” Lydia commented after Amelia filled her in on everything that had transpired since coming to London. “I met their mother once at a science conference in Berlin. She’d presented some complex physics equation… I know Ruthie has long been enamored of her work.”

“I’ve only met Sherlock and Mycroft,” Amelia noted. “Though, I can’t imagine what kind of people would have raised them.”

“Their hearts are in a good place,” Lydia tutted, glancing back at the house. “How is living with Sherlock and his friend?”

“It’s… _nice_ ,” Amelia confessed.

“He seems pretty loyal to you,” she commented.

“He’s loyal to the _case_ ,” Amelia quickly clarified. “I mean, yes, he’s a very dear friend. He and John are basically my best friends, but I try not to get his motives confused.”

Lydia paused, looking toward her daughter in bewilderment.

“I’d gotten the impression otherwise,” she replied casually. “He sticks close by. Watches you for reactions. It’s _cute_.”

Amelia stammered for words. She said her mother was reading into it too much. That he did the same thing with John. That he was uncomfortable around people and used his bravado to hide it.

“That’s not what my assistant said,” Lydia hummed. “The two of you curled together in the hospital bed…”

Amelia paled, mortified by the implication.

Friends. They were _friends_.

He wasn’t feeling well that day and she comforted him. No different than bringing John a sandwich or helping Mrs. Hudson put her laundry away.

_And what about last night?_ her brain unhelpfully taunted.

Lydia seemed to sense Amelia’s inner duress, squeezing her daughter’s hand.

“Perhaps I’ve failed you in that way,” she shook her head. “I’m confident he feels something for you. Don't overthink these things, love.”

“Yeah, friendship,” Amelia corrected with a huff. “I mean… I can’t even begin to think about him in a sexual manner…”

“And why not? He’s a very handsome young man,” Lydia smirked at her. “If he were twenty years older…”

“ _Gross_ ,” Amelia groaned. “If I wasn’t relying on you to get back in one piece, just know I’d be running back right now.”

“I’ve been so hard on you,” Lydia soothed, tucking back a windblown curl behind Amelia’s ear. “I wanted so much for you, and wanted to give you every chance I’d been denied… perhaps that was my failing. I wasn’t _human_ enough for you. Are you still painting?”

The change in the subject came as a relief to her, and Amelia pulled up her cloud account to show her mother the paintings she’d been working on the art few weeks. When she got to the more recent pieces, she held up a picture of the painting she’d submitted for the New York exhibition.

Studying it in closer detail, her mother just looked incredulously at her daughter.

“I’m just going to say one thing,” she handed the phone back to Amelia and laughed. “Whatever path you decide, I’m proud of you and give you my most sincere blessing.”

“You’re reading too much into it,” Amelia repeated. “I’m telling you.”

“ _Whatever you say, darling_.”

* * *

Returning to the room after her conversation with her mother, her first text was to John, inquiring how he was doing.

Aside from an early discharge, he was home and still resting.

Enjoying the peace and quiet.

Amelia smiled to herself at that. A bit of normalcy _for_ _once_.

He asked how she was feeling. If Sherlock was behaving, and she filled him in as best she could over text.

John video-called immediately and Amelia sat next to Sherlock while they walked him through their discoveries.

“And that’s it?” he asked the pair. “The case is over?"

“Mostly,” Sherlock replied.

“Mostly?” Even Amelia looked to him quizzically.

“Moriarty?” he answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I just assumed he was an ever-present threat lingering over us,” John replied dryly.

“His arrest will be central to the legal challenges of this case,” Sherlock clarified.

“And maybe a little peace of mind?” Amelia suggested softly. 

“That too,” he murmured in agreement, typing an email on his laptop to Lestrade about the triple homicide. It’d been the maid, who’d killed her employer and his wife in a fit of jealousy, and then turned the gun on herself.

“Show me the room,” John demanded after Amelia filled him in on some of the particulars of their stay in the manor.

“It’s a bit much,” Amelia laughed, panning the camera around. “Though the bed is spectacular.”

“Just _the one_?” John noted, sending her a knowing look through the camera.

“It’s a big bed,” she emphasized, stretching across the surface.

“And you two are sharing?” he asked, a brow slowly arching the longer it took for her to answer.

“Well, last night, with my foot and all-,” she started but Sherlock took the phone.

“ _We are_ ,” he answered briskly. “She’s a terrible bed-hog.”

“John did I tell you I finally sent in a picture of my painting to my friend in Brooklyn?” Amelia quickly changed the subject, distracting John’s attention until she hung up. She was preparing a bath for herself when her new phone buzzed on the countertop with a new text from John Watson.

**???**

To which Amelia groaned, and tried to ignore the text. She wanted to relax, no re-hash the nonsense she’d been dealing with all day.

But John Watson was a persistent fellow.

**Anything else you’d like to share?**

Amelia didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like they’d had _sex_ or really _anything_. They shared the bed, snuggled a little, and teased one another over some pillow talk.

She definitely wasn’t going to mention her critical misinterpretation from that morning.

Well, at least until she did.

**You’re both idiots.** He typed back immediately. ****

_Helpful. How incredibly helpful._ She typed out with a snort, settling into the warm water, holding her device up. ****

**I’ve been saying this for ages now, and you’re finally realizing the connection? I’ve never seen Sherlock fuss over someone until meeting you.**

_Not true, he fusses over you._ ****

**Not the same.**

_Twitter would disagree._ ****

**Stop trying to change the subject, Amelia.**

_I think I’m just looking at everything in an emotional light. I know I’m not fully in control of myself. I’m here for a funeral. My uncle, who shot my best friend and tried to kill me. And now my mother is here- I’m clinging to anyone showing me kindness._ ****

**I respect your introspection, but it’s ridiculous. This isn’t a** **new** **development.**

_General chaos surrounding my existence?_ ****

**The two of you follow each other around like puppies. Don’t think I didn’t notice the new perfume you bought- with the giant sunflower on the front.**

_It smelled nice and I couldn’t find my normal brand. You Brits have terrible taste in perfume._ ****

**And you happened to stumble across a sunflower scented one?**

_You’re still not proving your point._ ****

**The longing gazes into one another’s eyes? The touchy-feely all the time. You know he hates when people touch him, right? Downright has a fit.**

_I’m touchy with_ _everyone,_ _John, he’s probably used to it._

**God you’re hopeless. You don’t jump when he touches you. Anyone else, you try to hide it, but you shudder.**

_Ignoring you._ ****

**You two dote on each other incessantly. He refused to leave when you were sick. Only when your life was in genuine danger did he step out to try and create a cure.**

_Night John! :)_ ****

**For a pair of intellects, you’re both incredibly thick.**

* * *


	14. Asphodel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got her first draft essay done for law apps? 
> 
> Here's a very dialogue-heavy chapter that I've been typing up between stuff. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_They’re both idiots. Emotionally stunted idiots with only concern for the world and never for themselves._

* * *

The viewing had gone as well as could be expected. Sherlock had to admit, whoever patched the hole in the back of Maxwell’s head had done a spectacular job.

Amelia hung back, chatting politely with family, and Sherlock noticed that she never went up to the casket before it was sealed up and the memorial was moved to the gravesite outside.

Hugging her cousin as the family moved, she whispered something in Ruth’s ear that made the other chuckle quietly.

She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, and when Sherlock arrived at the graveyard, Amelia was gone.

He realized that in all the fuss and bustle, she must have slipped away before the actual memorial began.

She hadn’t been missed, the focus falling on Ruthie and her family, occasionally Lydia. Once the body was in the ground, and people began lingering around for condolences, he went for the gardens. He was positive this time he would find his friend there, as the house was being prepped for a large dinner.

Sure enough, Amelia was sat up under a tree, bundled in her winter jacket, with a sketchbook propped in her lap. She didn’t notice him approach, and barely reacted when he sat down next to her,’ glancing at the picture she was drawing.

“Asphodel,” she explained without looking up. She shaded in the stems, pausing with the end of her pencil between her lips. “A bundle means _‘my regrets follow you into the grave_ ’.”

“Seems appropriate,” he commented.

“Burials freak me out,” she admitted. “And I couldn’t listen to the priest talk about what a great guy he was. I mean, maybe he was for a while, but he did nearly kill John.”

“And you,” Sherlock reminded her. She made a noise under her breath, dismissing his commentary.

“It’s so permanent,” she continued, her sketching a little more intense as she spoke. “Buried in the ground.”

“Flowers sprout from the ground,” Sherlock reminded her quietly. She didn’t react immediately, considering his words before she furrowed her brow in thought.

“ _Exactly_ , they spout and grow and become beautiful things,” she lowered her sketchbook to look at him directly. “A coffin just sits there. The body bloats and decays, contributing nothing and warping and bleh.”

“I’ll be sure to plant some nice roses over your body when the time comes,” he smirked.

“But that’s more productive,” she pointed at him with her pencil. “Roses _thrive_ with bonemeal and blood. They _love_ it.”

“I can assure you comfortably,” his smirk grew wider. “You’ll be _very_ much unaware of your surroundings when your time comes. Dead people tend not to complain about their accommodations in my experience.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she poked his arm with her pencil. “Otherwise I’ll _haunt_ you.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, but I’d be willing to see you try and prove otherwise.”

She snorted a laugh under her breath, folding her sketchbook shut.

“Did you see my great-aunt Marge?” she asked in a low voice.

“Is she the one who threw herself over the body?” he questioned in amusement.

“Yep,” she nodded. “She’s been complaining about not getting a cent in my grandpa’s will for decades now. Seems to think Ruthie’s gonna cut her a check today. Her son’s been playing boo-hoo all day too.”

“He called Tommy, ‘ _Johnny_ ’,” Sherlock supplied, earning a fit of giggles from her. It was far more peaceful in the gardens, even if the plants were mostly bare in anticipation of the upcoming winter weather. There were certainly fewer fake criers.

“Should we even stay for dinner?” she asked, cringing at the thought. “I think I heard Mycroft and my mother are leaving soon.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock muttered, visibly relieved. He was not looking forward to holding his tongue around these people for a few more hours. Aunt Marge alone was enough to provide him snide comments for the next few weeks. “I can be packed in ten minutes.”

Amelia hopped up eagerly, offering a gloved hand and pulling Sherlock to his feet.

“Make it five and we can stop for Indian on the way back.”

* * *

Returning home was uneventful. Both Amelia and Sherlock agreed that it was a bit of a relief not to be staring danger in the face the whole time. It’d been a long few hours, but immediately upon passing the threshold of Baker Street, they were energized again.

Home was home, after all.

John and Mrs. Hudson greeted them with homemade chicken soup, the pair dropping into the kitchen chairs and devouring the meal. 

“How has Ruthie held up?” Mrs. Hudson inquired, pouring tea for everyone once they’d finished eating, and moved to the living room.

“As well as you did during your husband's trial,” Sherlock replied briskly. “Favouring the grape, so to speak.”

“To be fair,” Amelia cut in, scowling at Sherlock. “She’s had a chaotic few weeks. I’d be drunk too.”

“But you haven’t been,” Sherlock pointed out. “Comparably, you’ve had a chaotic few _months_.”

“I have some old whiskey in the pantry. Is that your blessing, Sherlock? Or shall I start spending the nights in the pub with Jessica Reynolds?”

“You two are always at each other,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “After what John told me, I thought you’d be like honeymooners when you got back.”

Amelia immediately turned her focus to John, who was doing his best to avoid the Auburn-haired woman’s gaze.

“Oh? And what did John tell you?” she squeaked out, face red.

Sherlock even had to admit, it was an amusing response.

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Mrs. Hudson stood up and retreated for the stairs. “Forget I said anything. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

 _“Clever girl,”_ Amelia muttered after the landlady had closed the door to her flat. She kept her eyes on John, waiting for him to break. It was bound to happen. He always broke with that look.

“ _Really_?” he set his tea down, looking between Sherlock and Amelia impatiently. “Nothing happened?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question, John,” Sherlock crossed his legs, taking a slow sip of his tea. “Would you please expand on what you mean?”

Scoffing, he turned to Amelia.

 _Smart_ , Sherlock relented. Her every expression read like a book. Perhaps they’d all gotten too familiar with one another, each roommate reading the other so easily.

“Mia?” he asked.

Amelia shrugged, mumbling something non-committal about there only being one bed.

“We didn’t bang!” she finally snapped under Johns's scrutinizing look. “Stop being childish John. _Honestly_.”

“Just shared a bed,” Sherlock hummed. “Pressed against one another the entirety of the night.”

“ _Fully clothed_ ,” Amelia supplied with a huff. “You’re both enjoying getting a rise out of me and I won’t have it.”

“I think, you wouldn’t be worked up if there wasn’t something you were concerned about being taken out of context,” John reasoned, leaning into his chair smugly.

“Yeah, you thinking I’d sleep with Sherlock,” she scoffed.

“And what’s so bad about that?” Sherlock poked the bear a little further, his face stretched in feign outrage.

Between embarrassment, frustration, and panic, Amelia looked like she short-circuited at the question.

“I’m going to bed,” she stood up, grabbing her blanket, and hobbled down the stairs to her room.

“You’re enjoying this?” John asked with a chuckle.

“ _Immensely_ ,” Sherlock admitted, smirking to himself.

“And how did you feel about sharing such an intimate space with her?” John quizzed, brow arched expectantly.

How on Earth did he turn it on _him_?

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock scanned John over. What was his goal here?

Personal satisfaction? No, John wasn’t vindictive like that. He wouldn’t cause trouble for the sake of trouble, he was trying to figure something out.

“Don’t be a busy-body, John, it’s unbecoming,” he rolled his eyes, pulling his phone out and pretending to browse the web.

“Mhm,” John tapped a finger to his chin. “And how did it feel to be ‘pressed against one another the entirety of the night’?”

“I was just teasing Amelia,” he countered.

“You’re not a robot, right?” John sighed.

“I don’t understand what you’re implying?” Sherlock huffed. “What a waste of time.”

He went to retreat for his room when John finally spoke up.

“Amelia,” he caught his friend by the wrist before he passed him. “Do you have feelings for her?”

_What?_

“What?” Sherlock gaped at him. “Are you mad?”

“What’s her favourite colour?” John waited.

“Marigold yellow,” he replied quickly. “I know yours too, an embarrassingly boring shade of taupe.”

“Favourite book?”

“Anything by Ernest Hemingway.”

“My favourite?”

“John, you’re not proving your point by quizzing me on basic facts about the people I surround myself with,” he pulled his hand free. “She’s a friend.”

“Would you spoon me tonight, then?” John challenged to Sherlock's back.

“Sod off!”

And so John had his answer.

Now to help Amelia and Sherlock to figure it out. He was a good friend after all, and they were a pair of emotionally stunted idiots.

* * *

Sherlock, for his part, truly didn’t believe he had feelings for Amelia Brenner.

For starters, he didn’t know her middle name. Only that it started with “O”. He could have easily gotten her birth certificate but remained convinced that would be cheating.

So how could he have feelings for someone he didn’t fully know?

Of course, John was the one pressing it. The guy who falls in love after one date, clearly confused by two close friends. Just because they were of opposite genders did not mean they automatically were attracted to one another.

And while Sherlock was attracted, a little bit, to Amelia, that didn’t change his stance. That was physical attraction, not anything deeper or meaningful and he was too much of a gentleman to lure her down that road.

He knew Amelia got flustered when it came to romantic entanglements. He didn’t actually believe she had any real feelings for him. It would have been obvious. Most people were obvious, and she’d slept with him, hugged him, touched him, without any hesitation or second thought. That’s just how she was, and that’s why it was so easy for him to tease her.

None of it was genuine.

Grabbing a book off his nightstand, Sherlock was disappointed to find it was a novel he’d finished before leaving for Sirenshore. Not willing to sulk back into the living room to grab something new, he started flipping through the pages until he found a section he’d enjoyed.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long it’d been, but at some point, John went to his bedroom upstairs and the flat was silent.

Aside from the thud of Amelia’s boot and a string of curse words in what Sherlock imagined was her attempt at being quiet.

Setting his book aside, Sherlock crept toward the kitchen, watching from the hall while Amelia made peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She’s changed to her pajamas but clearly hadn’t been sleeping, as her fingers and arms were covered with paint.

She leaned against the countertop, biting into her sandwich and reading the ingredients on the peanut butter container.

He knew she had to have been exhausted after the long trip back and the funeral. Why hadn’t she fallen asleep yet?

He glanced at the kitchen clock. It’d been nearly three hours, and it was considerably late in the night.

Then he remembered.

The basement flat. She didn’t like it down there alone, not recently.

But, with John home, she couldn’t very well sleep on the sofa as she had been. Amelia likes pretending things were fine, even when it was obvious she was on the verge of a breakdown.

“Is the bread stale?” he asked, announcing himself before stepping into the light.

“What?” she chewed a bit, confused at the question. “I mean, no? It doesn’t taste like it.”

“Right,” he nodded, moving to the same countertop and mimicking her lean. Lots of paint on her arms. More than usual. She was being sloppy, which confirmed his theory she was tired.

“What time did you wake up today?” he asked, trying to stay casual.

“Around six-thirty... you were there...” she lowered her sandwich. “Why are you being weird?”

“You’ve been up painting,” he commented, lifting her arm toward the light. “Can’t sleep?”

She tugged her arm free and took another bite of her sandwich.

“Inspiration struck,” she answered. “It’s not very good, but I needed to get it out of my system. Why aren’t _you_ in bed?”

“I never sleep,” he replied. “If you’d like, I was going to do some reading by the fire. It’s warmer than in my bedroom. You’re welcome to come back, John shouldn’t be up until morning.”

She ate the final piece of the sandwich, watching him suspiciously.

“Is this about what John was going on about earlier?” she asked. “Because I know I got weird but seriously, intimacy and whatever freaks me out and he’s _totally_ reading into things.”

“I know,” he stood up. “He’s John. He’ll get over it soon enough. The injury probably is making him bored so he’s coming up with fantastical ways to entertain himself.”

It made sense and Amelia seemed content with the answer.

“That’s...” she laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me grab an extra blanket and something to do. I’ll be back.”

When she returned for the evening, she had a sketchbook under her arm and a blanket was thrown over her shoulders. Settling in, they both worked quietly until Sherlock no longer heard the scratch of her pencils against the paper.

Sure enough, she’d passed out, the sketchbook set aside and the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She looked relaxed, the same peaceful expression on her face as she’d had at Sirenshore.

Sherlock tossed another log into the fire. He wasn’t planning on sleeping any time soon, his mind still reeling over everything from the last weekend. He needed to find Moriary before he enacted whatever it was he was planning.

He needed to keep his friends safe.

* * *


	15. Ophelia

* * *

_I missed normal. At least, normal for Baker Street. Solving crimes, going to work, and not having to worry about being shot or murdered._

_It's nice, and with Amelia around, it keeps things at least a little interesting. Sherlock is on better behavior, though that didn't stop him from shooting a hole in the kitchen and earning an earful from both Mrs. Hudson and Mia the other night._

_I've been doing better. The wound is pretty much healed up, and I've been able to accompany Sherlock to crime scenes again- much to Amelia's relief._

_Apparently, she'd been getting sick at the sight of the bodies. Not the best habit to have when working alongside a murder consultant._

* * *

**_I will burn the heart out of you._ **

Sherlock couldn’t shake the words out of his head, his thoughts lost deep in his mind palace.

It was incredibly inconvenient, given that he was presently standing over the body of a local priest and couldn’t recall the name of the parish the man served.

“Cathedral of Our Lady the Blessed?” John voiced, peering up from his mobile.

That’s right. He knew that. 

The mental image of the large church sprang into his mind.

“ _Right_ ,” Sherlock stood up, straightening his jacket. “We should interview the sisters.”

“We’ll get the body to Molly,” Lestrade promised, the remainder of the forensic detectives wrapping up the small scene.

There hadn’t been much to observe. The body hadn’t had any marks of trauma or bruising. No bullet or stab wounds, no blood. No signs of poisoning. If Sherlock was less thorough, he would have chalked the whole thing up to a random heart attack.

But it was the surroundings that made the death that much more suspicious.

The priest had been found on the stage of an empty gentleman’s club. The building had been set for demolition, and during a last check of the property, a construction worker stumbled across him and called it in.

“Probably some rival showing off the priests lack moral fiber…” Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

“What?” John flagged down a taxi.

“I bet it’s someone at the parish who thought little of the priest,” Sherlock cleared his throat.

“A bit obvious then, don’t you think?” John chuckled, giving the address to the driver. “Leaving him in an old strip club?”

“Certainly not the most clever,” Sherlock agreed, sliding in next to him.

**…burn the heart…** ****

“We’re here,” John nudged Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock blinked out the window, disoriented by the sudden arrival. The parish was at least a thirty-minute taxi ride away from the scene of the crime. He quickly paid the driver and followed John to the entrance of the large building.

It was ornate, old, and the grounds were incredibly well kept, given the age of the property.

“Hello,” a nun greeted with a smile, bowing her head to the pair. “Inspector Lestrade said you would be coming.”

“Thank you, Sister…?” John replied politely.

“Angeline,” she smiled again. So many smiles. It was irritating. “I’m relieved you two were able to make it to us so quickly.”

“It’s a shame about Father Matthews,” John hummed. Sherlock could feel the doctor watching him out of the corner of his eye while the detective poked around the gardens.

“He was a good man,” Angeline sighed. “A true child of Christ in all his work.”

“Did he have anyone who would have wanted him dead?” Sherlock questioned bluntly, scanning the Queen Anne’s lace over.

“Sherlock,” John warned. “I apologize Sister…”

“No, no,” Angeline waved off John’s concern, looking to Sherlock. “He came to us with a troubled past. Addiction, adulterous behaviors… he was looking for redemption and we provided it. He’s served our parish for a decade now.”

“And someone must have disagreed with bringing in such an unworthy man,” Sherlock surmised, folding his arms behind his back.

“Most did,” she confessed in a low voice. “Though another brother, Father Colin, was especially vocal about it.”

Sherlock nodded, continuing their way around the parish while Angeline pointed out particular areas of interest, eventually guiding them to the late Father’s personal quarters.

“Have a look around,” she unlocked the door, standing aside while the men began digging through the room.

Nothing of too much interest. Some dried flowers, some notebooks, bibles…

He took a few pictures for good measure, though nothing seemed to pique his interest.

**…heart out of you.**

They were back in the garden. John was saying something to Angeline and making her giggle while Sherlock was knelt down next to… parsnips?

The plot was partially dug up, some flowers and carrots discarded on the soil, a spade stuck into the dirt.

He took a picture of a flower he vaguely recognized as Queen Anne’s lace and sent it to Amelia to double-check. It was almost identical in structure, with a large bundle of small white flowers at the end of each stem.

“Sherlock?” John stepped over, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock tilted the plant closer to his face, studying each tiny bulb.

“This isn’t Queen Anne’s Lace,” he stated decidedly. As if on cue, his phone chirped to life with a message from their resident florist.

**_Hemlock. Don’t touch it. Don’t breathe it._ **

Sherlock pulled away, quickly wiping his hands on his pants.

“John, we’re going to need to make a stop,” he murmured, handing John his phone.

John skimmed over the message, eyes widening.

“Yes, right,” he cleared his throat. “Thank you. We’ll be back.”

* * *

“It’s an easy mistake,” Amelia poured Sherlock a fresh cup of tea. His head was pounding, his hands still burned from the Hemlock's stem. “They’re eerily similar. Not to mention, the ends look a lot like common vegetables. Accidental exposure happens more often than you’d think, to some of the most practiced professionals.”

“Have you ever mistaken it?” he grumbled, pulling his mug to his face, his hand shaking slightly.

“I- well, no,” she frowned apologetically. “I did accidentally poison a roommate once. Unintentionally. He’d been going through some of my samples and came across some dried hemlock. Thought it was marijuana.”

“How on earth?” John stared up at her in disbelief.

“He wasn’t very bright,” she hummed in thought. “Ended up dropping out shortly after.”

“That’s incredibly reassuring, Amelia,” Sherlock muttered.

“Maybe next time, you text me the picture before you start messing with it?” she tutted under her breath. He could feel her eyes linger on him. Worry. Concern. Masked by a snarky comment.

“I think we now know how the priest died,” John shrugged, sitting in his chair. “Poisoning.”

“Is Molly a full toxicology report?” Amelia perked up, chatting with John about the potential postmortem effects of a Hemlock poisoning. “An intentional poisoning wouldn’t necessarily have any outward signs. Maybe vomiting? But if he didn’t touch it, there wouldn’t be any irritation on the skin.”

She gestured to Sherlock’s hands. He responded with a scowl, earning a snicker from his friend.

**I will burn the heart out of you.**

* * *

“Now I know the poison wasn’t strong enough to hallucinate me again,” Amelia’s voice teased through Sherlock’s subconscious. His mind was dark. The only sign of life the familiar New Yorker accent. “Are you _dreaming_ about me?”

His eyes opened to a brightly lit field of wildflowers. The sun was shining above him, a handful of willow trees visible in the distance.

Next to him, Amelia was sitting cross-legged in a small patch of grass, a pile of flowers being careful strung into a flower crown in her lap.

“Isn’t this nice?” she asked him, grabbing his hand and pulling him next to her. Sherlock was struck by the way the sun hit her hair, pulling the reds out in a fiery blur. She leaned over, gently setting the flower crown on his head.

“We should go to the countryside,” she mused, leaning back, closing her eyes, and letting the sun warm her skin. “Or maybe visit my mom’s summer house back home.”

“What is all of this?” Sherlock finally found his voice, gesturing around them.

“It’s a dream, silly,” she snorted, falling back against the plush grass. She rolled her head toward him, a long sigh relaxing her shoulders. “Peaceful, isn’t it? There shouldn’t be any Hemlock here, don’t worry.”

It was like a scene out of one of those cheesy Jane Austen BBC movies. The clouds moved lazily across the sky and Amelia continued stringing flower together, holding each one up and listing its name and informal meaning.

“ _Be mine?_ ” she held up a red carnation, sitting up and smiling sheepishly over the crimson flower.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock was certain he’d misheard her.

“That’s what it means, dork,” she tucked the flower behind his ear with a flourish. “Love, compassion, romance, be mine…”

His hands touched the silk-like petals, pulling the flower free and twirling it between his fingers.

“Is this supposed to be a subtle message?” he teased, giving the bloom a dramatic sniff.

“Oh Sherlock, I don’t need to be subtle,” her voice morphed, lowering in tone, an Irish lilt catching the ends of her words. He looked up, the meadow was burning around them, but when he went to reach for Amelia’s hand, it was gone.

“Asphodel grew in the underworld,” Moriarty’s voice announced from over his shoulder. “In a purgatory of sorts, between life and death, the worthy dead and the unworthy.

Asphodel’s filled the field, the smoke sweeping over the landscape, creating a grey haze amongst the white flowers.

“Are you worthy?” he taunted, following Sherlock as the detective scrambled to his feet and started toward the willow trees. “Deadly nightshade.. Belladonna, one of the most toxic plants on earth… Hemlock… well, you know all about that now, don’t you?”

The plants sprung up around his feet. 

“I told you I was going to burn the heart out of you,” Moriarty continued, strolling through the deadly plants. “I didn’t think it’d be so easy. Pathetic, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ran and ran. Something in his chest told him to keep heading toward the willow trees, but no matter how quickly he sprinted, they stayed the same distance away.

“Better get out now, Sherlock,” Moriarty cackled, plucking Belladonna and tucking it in his hair. “Get out while you can.”

Sherlock jolted awake with a start, his heart thrumming against his ribs. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in his room, the moon still shining outside his window.

 _Only a dream_. He ran a hand down his face, taking a deep breath.

An image of Amelia with flowers woven through her auburn curls flashed through his mind's eye. Laughing, the sky blue and bright behind her. Peaceful.

**I will burn the heart out of you.**

* * *

“Amelia, what’s your middle name?” Sherlock asked a few days later. Amelia was in the kitchen attempting her hand at some homemade chocolate chip cookies.

“You don’t know?” John lowered his newspaper, peeking up at the detective in surprise. “I know something you don’t?”

Sherlock looked to John incredulously, pausing to ensure he’d read his friend’s reaction correctly.

“How do _you_ know?” he demanded, looking between him and Amelia for an answer.

“He helped me fill out the paperwork for long term residence,” Amelia shrugged, opening the oven to check on her baked goods. “It isn’t a big deal, I figured you already knew.”

“No, don’t tell him,” John called out. 

“He’s just going to dig up my social security card or something,” Amelia replied frankly, hand on her hip. “I’d rather him not disturb my filing system. I finally organized it last night.”

She wasn’t wrong, Sherlock mentally relented. He already had a plan for how he intended to go about finding it, starting with Mrs. Hudson and the original rental application. It wasn’t cheating if he accidentally saw it on the paperwork.

“Then what is it?” Sherlock pressed, earning a long sigh from John.

Amelia laughed at John’s reaction. Fishing through the cabinets, she pulled out a pair of oven mitts, focusing completely on the task at hand.

She pulled out the cookie sheet, the scent of the cookies floating through the apartment.

Sherlock reached for one but was swatted away by a spatula wielded by the American.

“They need to cool,” she snapped. “ _And_ they’re for John. You know, our dear, _injured_ friend?”

“What’s your middle name?” he tried again, sidestepping her and approaching the tray from behind.

“Ophelia,” she answered, spinning and swatting his hand again. He waited for her to look away, deciding to distract her for the time being.

“Amelia… _Ophelia_ …?” Sherlock paused, pulling his hand away from the tray when she sent him a pointed glare.

“Yes,” came her calm response.

She explained that her mother had been on a Hamlet kick around the time of her birth, and her father had apparently thought the combination of names had been a stroke of genius.

“I guess I can’t say much,” he reasoned, grabbing one of the cookies and retreating before Amelia could swat at him. He downed the hot cookie in a single bite, his mouth hanging open. “Ah, hot… hot..”

“I told you to wait!” she scolded, shaking her head.

“He has no self-control,” John sighed.

“Amelia Ophelia purposely made them too hot,” Sherlock complained, dropping into his seat.

“ _There_ we go,” Amelia rolled her eyes, disappearing back into the kitchen to put the cookies on a plate for John. “Shall I start calling you _William_?”

Sherlock made a noise of disgust.

“I can’t believe you’d be so cruel, Amelia Ophelia,” he relented, stealing another cookie from John’s plate. “Telling John your full name and not me.”

“Well, William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she pulled off her apron and stood in the doorway between rooms, arms crossed. “I had just assumed you’d done a thorough background check.”

“I would never violate the privacy of a friend,” he lied.

Both Amelia and John snorted in response.

“You’re the one who so rudely pick-pocketed me and stole my identity,” he continued, taking a large bite out of the cookie. He pointed it in her direction. “I would _never_.”

“Why the sudden interest?” she asked, grabbing a tray of clean cups and a freshly poured tea kettle, setting it between the men.

“I just wanted to know,” he shrugged indifferently. _That_ wasn’t a lie.

“Amelia Ophelia _Holmes_ ,” John hummed mockingly, sending his friend a knowing look. “Sounds like a storybook character.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, fixing herself a mug of tea.

“He’d take my name,” she stated firmly. “William Sherlock Scott _Brenner_.”

 _“I hate it,”_ Sherlock sat up. “You’re taking _Holmes_.”

“ _Amelia Holmes_ ,” she tried, pulling a face of disgust. “Amelia Holmes-Brenner.”

“Mia Holmes has a nice ring,” John supplied, earning a low groan from his friends.

“John Hamish Holmes sounds even better,” she stole a cookie from his plate when he glared at her in offense, giggling as she took a bite.

“Sherlock _Watson_ ,” Sherlock tried, shrugging. “Not terrible.”

“Amelia Watson,” John shot back, guarding the remainder of his cookies from the pair.

“Amelia _Ophelia_ Watson,” Sherlock corrected sharply. “A very important distinction.”

“William Watson,” Amelia perked up. “I think that’s my favorite so far.”

“It isn’t fair when you use alliteration,” Sherlock protested. “And I don’t go by _William_.”

“Why not? It’s definitely fitting for a _distinguished_ English gentleman such are yourself.”

“Stop it or I’m referring to you as Mrs. Holmes in front of Mycroft and leaving you to fend for yourself,” he threatened.

“He’d probably think you married me against my will,” Amelia shot back, smirking. “Obviously to steal my fortune like some dastardly Victorian-era villain. We should get you an evil little mustache.”

“Oh, and he can wear the deer hat,” John agreed quickly.

“Like Spock when they went into the parallel universe?” Amelia lit up, shoot ideas back and forth with John until Sherlock stood up.

“I’m not growing a mustache,” he declared.

“It’s okay, we know you can’t,” Amelia nodded solemnly.

“I can, I just choose to be clean-shaven,” he protested, starting for the kitchen. "It's more professional."

“Ok Sherlock,” she flashed that pleasant smile. That dumb smile she did when she didn’t want to be rude.

“I’m telling the truth,” he paused and reached over John’s shoulder for the final cookie.

“I’ve never seen it,” John shot back.

“The truth comes out,” Amelia pointed to the doctor. “Don’t be embarrassed Sherlock, I can’t grow one either.”

“I’m due to meet Molly,” Sherlock grabbed his jacket, throwing it over his shoulders with a huff.

“Don’t forget your scarf,” Amelia called. “Don’t want your poor face getting frostbite. Lack of protection and all…”

“Remind me why I let you move in?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't really have anything for notes on this chapter. I just really like writing interactions between the three of them.
> 
> More to come! Thanks for reading!


	16. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I disappeared without any notice! I had a few small scheduling hiccups with the holidays and I've been working my butt off applying to law schools (which has taken waaaay longer than I'd initially planned). 
> 
> Thankfully, that should all be done in the next week, and I don't start my semester again until the second week of January. I set a personal goal to get at least two more chapters up in the next few days to make up for the long wait. Thank you all for being so patient and understanding! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_"...a chasm opened in the earth and out of it coal-black horses sprang, drawing a chariot and driven by one who had a look of dark splendor, majestic and beautiful and terrible. He caught her to him and held her close. The next moment she was being borne away from the radiance of earth in springtime to the world of the dead by the king who rules it.”_

_-Edith Hamilton (Mythology)_

* * *

**December 18th**

“Lower... lower...” Amelia ducked out of the way when Sherlock shoved the Christmas tree into the flat with a final push. It hit the back bookshelf, sending paperwork and hardcover books to the ground. John sprawled forward, catching himself on Amelia’s arm before he fell on his face.

“I don’t know why you insisted on the biggest tree at the shop,” Sherlock complained, dusting off his jacket, John glaring at his back.

“ _You could have warned me_ ,” John grumbled, wiping his sap covered hands onto his pants. “I wasn’t ready for you to go _Conan the Barbarian_ on me.”

“I was tired of carrying it,” Sherlock fell backward into the couch with a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Labors of love, I suppose,” Amelia knelt next to his head, patting the curls before adding, condescendingly. “ _Poor Sherlock Holmes, he isn’t equipped to carry trees like some common farmer._ ”

“I’m not,” he glared, but didn’t do much to protest, his body relaxing at the touch. “My value is my mind, thank you very much.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time you try to fistfight a bad guy,” John supplied, shrugging off his coat.

He and Amelia started rummaging through the old boxes of decorations Mrs. Hudson brought up for a tree stand. The concept seemed simple in theory, but between the three of them, the tree toppled over twice, John moved out, moved back in, and Amelia threatened giving up altogether.

It was Mrs. Hudson who eventually heard the commotion and appeared in the doorway to save the day.

“Aren’t you three supposed to be educated?” she admonished with a snort, admiring her handiwork proudly.

Amelia excused herself to make a batch of coffee, muttering under her breath that she needed a stimulant before continuing to be _jolly_.

Christmas bulbs and lights were pulled out next, and the group took turns hanging favorites in different spots on the tree.

“What about stockings?” Amelia asked once the flat was covered in tinsel and twinkling lights. “We’ve got a fireplace and everything!”

“I’d gotten the boys stockings last year,” Mrs. Hudson pondered. “Never got them back to put them away.”

“What about you Mrs. Hudson?” Amelia asked. “Did _the boys_ get you a stocking?”

When silence fell over the group, Amelia hopped up from her seat.

“Then we start over this year,” she nodded decidedly. “Well draw names for who fills who’s stocking.”

“I thought that was for gifts,” John voiced. “You know, to save money.”

“Oh, uh,” Amelia faltered. “I already got all your gifts.”

“A bit short notice, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she quickly supplanted, grabbing her coat and moving toward the door. She was already partially down the steps when she called over her shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. Just focus on the stockings.”

* * *

**December 20th**

“ _Okay_ ,” Amelia stood back while John balanced precariously on the broken ladder Mrs. Hudson lent them. She held up a hand, making sure the picture was balanced, and nodded in approval.

“I’m _never_ doing that again,” John huffed, holding his chest as the ladder gave a wobble on the way down. “Make Sherlock take it down.”

“Deal,” Amelia nodded and looked at the painting they’d positioned over the sofa. It was a large canvas with the front of the building, covered in lights with a dusting of snow on the street, a lit tree in one of the windows.

She’d called it her Christmas gift to the apartment.

In reality, they’d run out of decorations and no one wanted to deal with the crowds at the store to buy more.

“It does make the room cozier,” John relented after studying the picture. “All I can think about is a hot cup of tea.”

“You don’t think it’s too big?” Amelia asked, tilting her head to catch the picture from a different angle.

“Sherlock will complain about it, but he complains about everything,” John called back, wandering into the kitchen with tea on the mind. “I think it ties the theme of the room together.”

“ _Santa’s vomit?_ ” she joked, taking in the random assortment of tinsel, lights, and decor they’d thrown together.

“Something like that,” he chuckled.

* * *

**December 21st**

“Why do we have to volunteer at a soup kitchen on Christmas?” Sherlock grumbled, looking over the schedule Amelia had put together for the upcoming festivities. “Why do you even have _this_? You don’t plan holidays to the minute. They’re for resting. Sleeping. Eating.”

“You make schedules when you’ve got lots to do, and people to feed,” she shook her head. “And gifts to buy, and family to call...”

“Why don’t you just _donate_ to the shelter? That’s so much easier,” he added, tossing the paper aside.

“I already did,” she explained, plucking the paper back up and shoving it into his hands. “I met the supervisor, Devin, and he explained they were short for help on the holidays. I offered our services.”

“What if there’s a murder?” he asked, peeking over the paper at his friend. “The city might need me.”

“The city- needs you for two hours in the afternoon on Christmas Day,” she assured him. “Call it _my_ Christmas present. Just promise me you’ll come?”

“Fine,” he relented after a pause of consideration. “ _Two hours_.”

“Good, because John already agreed,” she grinned. “It’ll be fun.”

 _“Doubt it._ ”

“Don’t be a Scrooge."

“I’m _not_ wearing a Santa hat, for the record.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Okay.”

* * *

**December 24th**

“Oh drat,” Mrs. Hudson rummaged through the large stack of ingredients on the kitchen counter. After Amelia agreed to thoroughly clean the upstairs kitchen, the landlady agreed to make dinner there. Mostly Amelia was concerned about her hip, going up and down over and over. “I forgot to pick up an onion.”

Amelia was out of her seat, moving toward her coat before another word could be said.

“Looks like Tesco is open for another thirty minutes,” she announced, checking the nearest location. “I’ll run over for you.”

“Would you, dear? I’d very much appreciate it,” she peeked into the stove. “As would this roast.”

“I need some more tape for presents anyway,” she pulled her hat on, wrapping her red scarf around snugly her face. She paused thoughtfully. “And a couple of bows... maybe another stocking stuffer for John.”

Sherlock just grunted in acknowledgment, reading through an autopsy Molly had emailed over, and John was busy watching a Christmas special on the television.

No point bothering them, Amelia reasoned, calling over her shoulder that she’d be right back.

The Tesco was a fifteen-minute walk to, and fifteen minutes walk back. Accounting for shopping time, waiting in the queue, and payment, it would roughly round out to forty-five minutes, max.

An hour had passed at Baker Street, and it took John realizing he’d missed a call on his mobile to notice that Amelia was running significantly behind.

“Sherlock,” John held his mobile to his ear, his face flushing at whatever the message said. “You’d better listen...”

Sherlock grabbed the device and put it on speaker. It started with Amelia’s usual perky greeting, nothing of concern.

 _“...You guys better have passports, because my friend accepted my painting for the exhibition in January!”_ he could almost hear her smile through the line. _“We can stay at my mom’s second apartment in- oh! I’m sorry, I wasn’t-...”_

His breath caught.

_“...what are you-?”_

Her voice was cut off, and it sounded like there was a struggle through the line.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock and John went for their coats, sprinting out the door as they shoved their arms through their sleeves.

It was still daylight out, the lazy afternoon easing into an equally peaceful evening. For some people.

It was a block away from Tesco when they found Amelia’s scarf and her smashed mobile kicked into an alleyway. John paced the block around, and returned, cursing under his breath.

Sherlock remained to kneel next to the scarf, his fingers running over the edge of the crimson garment.

“I’m calling Greg,” John stated, flustered, scared, nervous, Sherlock heard it all in the short sentence.

Pulling the scarf off the ground, a small bundle of flowers tumbled out.

He picked the bundle up, studying the flowers. Of course.

This was Moriarty’s new game. Sherlock's incentive for "playing" was Amelia.

“What’s that?” John peered over curiously. “A rose? I don’t recognize the others.”

“Violet, lily, Iris...” Sherlock frowned. “Larkspur, and... crocus?”

“Love, modesty, message,” John tried reciting, pausing. “I don’t know the others offhand.”

“He wouldn’t be that obvious,” Sherlock picked up what remained of Amelia’s phone and bundled it in his arms with the scarf and flowers.

“ _He_?” John asked, mortified. “You don’t mean..?”

“I’m almost positive,” Sherlock murmured, giving the alley a final once over.

“Oh god,” John looked like he was going to be sick.

* * *

**December 25th**

By Christmas Day, there still hadn’t been a word. John insisted on calling Mycroft and despite Sherlock’s fierce opposition, his brother showed up to Baker Street with a surprisingly solemn expression.

“What are your thoughts?” Mycroft tried engaging with Sherlock, but the detective kept his eyes shut, fingers steepled in front of him.

He was supposed to be at the homeless shelter in an hour.

“John mentioned the flowers?”

Sherlock remained still, listening while John grabbed the wilting bundle of flowers off of the kitchen table to pass to Mycroft.

“Lily, rose, violets,” Mycroft recited each one diligently. “Have you looked into the meaning of the bouquet?”

“There’s something else,” Sherlock snapped. “He isn’t so obvious. Amelia-.”

The name burned in his throat.

Fifty-six minutes before they’d be due at the shelter. He didn’t have the phone number. Who would let Devin know?

“Mia loves flowers,” John picked up on his friend’s hesitation. “She can recite every meaning behind anything that blooms.”

“Which is why Moriarty wouldn’t be so obvious,” Sherlock threw a hand in his brother's direction. 

“Brother mine, certainly you’re familiar with the Homeric Hymns?” Mycroft turned the small bundle between his fingers, examining the flowers as he spoke.

“The Greeks, right?” John asked and Mycroft nodded.

“More specifically,” Mycroft stepped forward and handed Sherlock the flowers. “ _Persephone_.”

“Goddess of spring,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled in response, head still bowed in thought.

“These were the flowers the myth says Persephone was picking in the meadow when she was abducted by Hades and taken to the underworld,” Mycroft quirked a brow at his brother.

Oh.

_Oh._

Sherlock felt like a fool to have overlooked such minute detail.

Moriarty loved a good drama. Bad guy versus good guy, light versus darkness, it was reasonable he would turn to myths in exacting his hands.

He was waiting for Sherlock to figure out the next piece of the puzzle.

If Amelia was Persephone, and Moriarty was playing Hades... there wasn’t a hero in that story. Persephone married Hades and was only permitted out of the underworld half the year.

He wasn’t following the exact myth then unless he planned to wed her against her will but that seemed... out of character.

This was a structured clue. A hint to pull Sherlock in the wrong direction before he could determine the next step.

“So, we need to find the underworld,” John voiced. “He’s a career criminal, it could be the criminal underworld.”

“But that’s not really _a place_ ,” Mycroft frowned.

“No,” Sherlock tapped his chin. “But there are places where they all gather. Bars, gentlemen’s clubs, country clubs...”

“We need to consider who would be under Moriarty’s influence,” Mycroft stated. “Disgraced members of the Chemco board... investors who have jumped ship after the whistleblowers came forward.”

“Jessica Reynolds,” Sherlock hummed, grabbing his laptop and pulling up the notes he’d gathered previously. “Her father was on the board, managed to secure her a position within the company under his golf buddy...”

“She was fired from the position after it became clear what she’d exposed,” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “It’s a dead end.”

“I pulled invoices and shipping manifests from her computer a few months previously,” Sherlock explained. “She had to have known or eventually recognized Amelia later on...”

“What about Lydia’s assistant?” John suggested. “They would have close access to Lydia’s information, as well as tracks on Amelia.”

Sherlock dug through the server dedicated to Human Resources and frowned when he pulled up the assistant's information.

“Jessica Reynolds,” he announced, spinning the computer around. “Hired after submitting her report to the authorities. Just recently resigned for personal reasons.”

“Lydia has a tendency to reward loyalty,” Mycroft muttered bitterly, skimming over the file with a huff.

“How did you miss this?” Sherlock demanded.

“Her assistant was hardly a concern,” Mycroft insisted tersely. “I was investigating Maxwell, the board, and the corrupted drugs.”

“Her father was pulled from the in connection to Maxwell and in turn, Moriarty,” Sherlock muttered.

“Where is he now?”

“Alexander Reynolds jumped ship once arrests were being made,” Mycroft informed the group. “Pulled his stock options, wiped his accounts and disappeared.”

“His track record doesn’t show a history of efficiency,” Sherlock scrolled through the businessman’s financial records. “Bankruptcies, sloppy tax evasion... he had help.”

“He had to have left the country,” John shook his head.

“But where did the money go? A large sum like that isn’t going to just disappear overnight,” Sherlock pulled the most recent transactions.

“As fun as this little game is, I do have an important witness to track down,” Mycroft sighed, moving toward the door. “Do let me know if you have any valuable leads.”

Sherlock barely acknowledged his brother after Mycroft gave the room a final sweeps

“Please tell me you have a plan?” John demanded after Mycroft was out of earshot. “Because I would think your brother’s resources would be especially useful right now.”

Sherlock peeked up at his friend. On his laptop was the last years worth of financial record between Alexander Reynolds, a Swedish Bank, and a company named _STYX LLC_.

In the corner of the screen was a web search, detailing the grand opening weekend of a new nightclub in downtown London.

**StyX.**

“We don’t need his help,” Sherlock assured him confidently. “Though, you should probably change out of the jumper.”


	17. Rue

* * *

_'Tis the damn season._

* * *

**December 26th- 1 am**

As it turned out, Hades was a woman. Or so she proclaimed herself over the DJs speak system to a screaming crowd. The music was turned back up, drunken party-goers mashed into one another on the massive dance floor.

StyX certainly lived up to its reputation of leading people to darkness.

Sherlock had bribed a bartender in a back alley on a smoke break to let them in. Fortunately, he was able to find John suitable clothes for the scene, his own jacket and shirt blending in with the well-dressed clientele.

“So Jessica owns this place?” John asked his friend, trying his best to avoid staring at the nearly naked dancer on a nearby platform. “Not what I expected for her.”

“Last time I saw her she was throwing herself all over Amelia,” Sherlock mused. “Granted, she was diligent in her work. Here’s hoping she got the binge drinking under control.”

He scanned the room, looking to the edges for where an administrative suite might be located.

“Don’t you two stick out like a couple of sore thumbs,” a female voice laughed behind the men.

“Miss Reynolds,” Sherlock turned with a smirk on his face.

“Long time no see, Mr. Holmes,” she gestured over her shoulder for the men to follow her to a secluded hallway. “Moriarty mentioned you would be stopping by.”

The music was non-existent by the time they stepped into Jessica’s office.

It was a neatly organized, modern space, with no trace of the lewd debauchery outside.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was going to be kidnapping your girlfriend,” she continued with a low sigh. “Have a seat.”

Two black seats were in front of her large glass desk. She turned and started to rummage through a filing cabinet before taking a seat in her chair.

“He left this,” she slid an envelope across the desk.

“What did you tell him?” Sherlock demanded, eyeing the envelope. “Why would he help you set all of this up from your father’s accounts?”

“He’s laundering money through the bar,” she explained so casually, it almost didn’t seem like she was referencing a very serious crime. “I have one of my security guards pass his guy a large duffel bag every other week, and he makes sure my shithead of a father stays out of the picture.”

“He’s dead then,” John stated and she shrugged.

“As I’m sure you’ve done a full inventory of my life, he isn’t the best person,” she replied truthfully.

“Why are you telling us this?” Sherlock examined the envelope in the light, checking for any stray hairs or fingerprints.

“Because, despite how it looks on paper, I’m not a bad person,” she answered earnestly, leaning back a little in her chair. “Neurotic? Definitely. A little unstable? My therapist thinks so. But I do have good intentions.”

“If you had good intentions, you wouldn’t have gotten in bed with Moriarty,” Sherlock scoffed, peeling back the edge of the envelope. “He’s a maniac.”

“He has good business acumen,” Jessica frowned. “I’m not thrilled about it, but I needed my father's money to finally get my own. If he’d been indicted, it would have been locked up in legal fees and government agencies for years.”

“A nightclub is getting your own?” John snorted.

“I hire homeless folks,” she explained, narrowing her gaze at him. “People coming back into work, retirees who need a little spare income, addicts looking for a second chance. I’m on track to donate a quarter of my profits to local domestic abuse programs. I’m not a monster.”

“God, you sound just like-,” Sherlock stopped when he pulled out the card inside.

Written in neat script was a small snippet of dialogue from Hamlet.

_There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love,_

_remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts._

_There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you,_

_and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays._

_O, you must wear your rue with a difference!_ _There’s a daisy. I_

_would give you violets, but they wither’d all when my father_

_died. They say he made a good end._

“Ophelia,” Sherlock’s words were barely above a whisper, passing the paper to John.

“Wear your rue with a difference?” John looked at his friend. “Why is that underlined?”

“It’s the implication that I have different rue than the speaker,” Sherlock muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rue for you and rue for _me_.”

“You can’t tell us anything about Moriarty’s whereabouts?” John demanded, waving the card toward Jessica.

“I can’t,” she replied softly. “He just told me that you’d be by after giving me the envelope. It was one of his security guys that mentioned Brenner.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Sherlock stood up abruptly, racing toward the door of the office, his mind moving at top speed.

Ophelia. What did he know about the character?

It inspired Amelia’s middle name, no coincidence there. 

Flowers. Intentional.

Ophelia went mad after Hamlet killed her father. She goes to the river and drowns.

But it isn’t intentional, or so it’s implied it isn’t.

She’s pulled into the river after falling in. 

But she doesn’t struggle and drowns in her misery.

There’s of course the medieval belief that Rue was a means of abortion.

 _No_ , Sherlock frowned. _That_ was too barbaric for someone like Moriarty.

He’d pick his tortures carefully. Toying with his victims. He wanted to prove his genius. Show it off.

“Sherlock!” John caught up with the detective near the end of the block, grabbing his sleeve and shoving a phone in his friend's hand. “A body’s washed up. Molly’s meeting us in the morgue.”

* * *

Allison Nell, a 30-year-old real estate broker, avid swimmer. Newly engaged, but lost her fiancé during his deployment two weeks previously.

Suicide is the presumptive cause of death. Overdose of pills then wandered into the Thames.

“Why would you think otherwise?” Sherlock asked as Molly unzipped the body bag.

“Because of this,” she used a gloved hand to open a large incision in Allison’s stomach.

Pills.

 _Undigested_ pills.

Meaning they weren’t metabolized at the time of death.

“Toxicology shows a slight increase in the substance, but not a lethal dose. Or even a strong enough dose to render a woman of her size unconscious. It wasn’t the pills that killed her,” Molly explained, a small look of pity at the woman’s swollen, blue face.

“She drowned,” John lifted the police report and skimmed it over. “If she hadn’t passed out, why didn’t she swam to shore?”

 _Ophelia_. A voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind whispered.

“Was she wearing winter garments?” he directed the question to Molly.

“A large wool coat, and heavy winter boots,” she confirmed with a nod.

“She was pulled down,” he decided. Against his better judgment, his gaze fell on the woman’s face. “With the shock of the cold water, she would have tired out, especially so with the extra weight pulling her down.”

_All he could see was Amelia._

“She could have been trying to come back,” John realized, his expression set miserably. “Second guessed herself...”

“She likely fell into the river after trying to get help,” Sherlock pointed to the woman’s address. “Ran out of the house, and stumbled along an embankment, and slipped in.”

The trio stood in silence, considering the sad fate of the woman in front of them.

His phone chirped with a text message from an unknown number.

_As one incapable of her own distress,_

_Or like a creature native and indued_

_Unto that element; but long it could not be_

_Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,_

_Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay_

_To muddy death_

* * *

“He _wanted_ you to figure out how that woman died,” John was summarizing when they returned to Baker Street near dawn. “To tie it with the clue from Jessica... why am I getting deja vu? Is he going to lead us on another round of crimes to solve?”

Sherlock tossed his coat on the hanger by the door, stewing over the text while the men made their way up the stairs to the flat.

“I just don’t know what he’s trying to prove,” John huffed from behind. “You’ve done this before. What’s the difference?”

Sherlock stopped short at the landing, gaping into the main living room of 221B Baker Street.

Photographs of Amelia were taped all over the room, plastering the walls and bookcases with candid images that seemed to range in date from her first few weeks in London to the day she was taken.

“That’s the difference, John,” Sherlock breathed, trying his best to steady his heart rate. “He wants to prove that sentiment is a detriment.”

“He’s trying to use her to distract you,” John translated. “He’s waiting for you to slip up, but what does that mean for Mia?”

Before Sherlock could reply, both their phones indicated new messages.

A video message, followed by a second text: **“Happy Christmas.”**

Amelia, looking fiercely defiant was slamming her hands against a metal wall, screaming a song out of tune. She was still wearing the jeans and oversized red sweater from Christmas Eve. Her blue coat was discarded on the floor.

There was no furniture or windows, so far as Sherlock could tell from the video.

“ _Country roads, take me home to the place I belong,_ ” she screeched. “ _West Virginia, mountain mama take me home, country roads!”_

There was a significant amount of background noise and the flicker of an unseen screen outside the view of the camera. She continued her rebellious shriek, clearly trying to be louder than whatever else she was exposed to.

The clip cut off from there.

“Alive,” John whispered first, his shoulders deflating just a little. "She's alive."

It certainly was a bit of good news in an otherwise depressing evening.

* * *

**January 3rd**

_Nothing_.

Sherlock rewatched the video religiously.

He’d left the photographs on the wall, walking through the room over and over, hoping for any indication of a clue.

 ** _Nothing_**.

John made sure he ate. Mycroft had called once, only to confirm that they had no leads either.

Even Jessica Reynolds texted him to inform him that Moriarty’s men hadn’t made their scheduled pick-up.

Lydia Brenner was almost hysteric when she called from a secured government line. She begged him to find her daughter, knowing full well what Amelia’s fate was otherwise.

* * *

**January 6th**

13 days.

He received another video message.

It had no sound and was short, a five-second clip of Amelia slumped over in a metal chair.

Same room.

New clothes.

He threw his phone across the room with a shout, nearly decapitating John in the process.

* * *

**January 11th**

A single red rose was sitting on the fireplace mantle after Sherlock and John returned from a crime scene.

When the detective stepped forward, he must have hit a tripwire because the television flipped on a scene from Disney’s _Sleeping Beauty_.

 _“I know you I walked with you once upon a dream. I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam. And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem. But if I know you, I know what you’ll do-,_ ” and the scene repeated.

Over and over as Sherlock studied the simple flower.

“Briar rose!” John guessed, looking to his friend with a satisfied nod. “That’s the princess in the movie and the story. She gets locked up by the evil witch and rose thorns overgrow the grounds to stop people from saving her. She had to have true love’s kiss to wake up.”

" _Why_ do you know this?” Sherlock quirked a brow, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“I have a sister,” John shot back, growing defensive. “She was quite fond of the movie growing up.”

* * *

**January 12th**

Briar Rose Gardens is where they found the next clue, as well as a dead body, frozen on the ground from the cold winter air.

_And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,_

_Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden,_

_Shall send between the red rose and the white_

_A thousand souls to death and deadly night._

King Henry the Sixth. More Shakespeare.

More flowers.

At this point, Sherlock knew he was playing by Moriarty’s hand, whatever that may be.

At least, however, he was familiar enough with the Temple Gardens, practically dragging John along to their next destination.

“Rose plant… rose plant…” Sherlock was frantically searching the dormant gardens for the horned plants.

“Sherlock,” John held up a small envelope, a large rose plant next to him.

It was an invitation; _a date and an address._

* * *


	18. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF this was a doozy. I wanted to get it out a few days sooner, but every time I read through it, I needed to tweak something else. I needed it to be PERFECT. I'm still not happy with it, but it isn't terrible, so there's that. 
> 
> Warnings!!: Anxiety, trauma, panic attacks, implied torture, implied violence, no sexual assault though it is mentioned.

* * *

_“That night he caged her, bruised and broke her._

_He struggled closer, then he stole her._

_Violet wrists and then her ankles, silent pain._

_Then he slowly saw their nightmares were his dreams._

_Monster- how should I feel? Creatures lie here, looking through the windows._

_Monster- how should I feel? Turn the sheets down, let her ears be pillow lace._

_There's bathtubs full of glow flies. Bathe in kerosene. Their words tattooed in his veins.”_

**_-Monster (by Meg & Dia)_ **

* * *

Needless to say, Amelia was puzzled when she woke up in the softest bed she’d ever been in, to the sound of frantic knocking on a door.

Blinking into the unfamiliar space, she stood up, rubbing at her eyes, locating the source of the noise without too much trouble.

It was rather obnoxious, after all.

She opened the door slightly, peeking through the crack into an ornate hallway.

_A hotel?_ Amelia looked over her shoulder into the room she’d trekked through.

When had she checked into _a hotel?_

The door was thrown open violently, a barrage of armed men barreling into the space. A hand caught her arm and pulled her into the hallway.

Spinning into the hall, a pair of hands clasped her shoulders and held her firmly in place.

“You’re safe,” Sherlock’s voice promised her.

_“What?”_ Amelia wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

Of course, she was safe. _Why wouldn’t she have been safe?_

Everything was dizzying. She didn’t understand what was going on. Why was everyone moving around so quickly? Why did her friends look so exhausted?

_“Are you okay?”_ John’s voice was next. Fingers prodded her face, grey eyes glanced her over.

This felt overkill.

Her hands strayed to her sides, running down high-quality silk. _Pajamas?_

More armed agents, more voices joining the chorus in the hall, scouring the premises.

She voiced her thoughts to Sherlock, whose expression soured when he asked her to repeat herself.

_“Mia,”_ John‘s tone was gentler. He guided her to a quieter section of the hallway, Sherlock hovering over his shoulder, that pained expression etched into his face. “What’s the date today?”

That was a silly question, she mused, pausing to consider her answer.

It was winter, wasn’t it? _Christmas_.

She relayed as much to the pair, and the men exchanged an uneasy look.

“It’s mid-January,” Sherlock croaked out.

“What?” a laugh was on her lips. “That’s what... off _a month?_ You’re messing with me, right?”

“We didn’t celebrate Christmas,” John continued, watching her carefully. He was waiting for something that Amelia didn’t quite understand. He looked worried. Tense.

“Did I drink too much and ruin something last night? This has to be a trick,” she paused, watching one of the armed agents walk back into the hall and mutter something into a walkie-talkie.

“Sherlock.” Someone peered out of the room and gestured for Sherlock to come inside.

_Mycroft?_ Amelia’s brain registered hazily. She did feel a bit out of sorts like she’d been at some party all night and was in the middle of sleeping off a hangover.

Sherlock studied at her briefly, then joined his brother without a second glance.

What was his deal? Why the sudden chill?

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Her mind screamed in warning, over and over, there was another chirp of walkie-talkies and it felt like the room was closing in on her.

“John,” Amelia looked to him with wide eyes, her hand moving to grab his desperately. “Please tell me what the hell is going on.”

She clutched onto his hand, squeezing it until his fingers were white, listening to him slowly explain.

“That’s-,” her voice cracked. “That’s _impossible…_?”

She felt sick.

Her fingers went to nervous pick at the edge of her clothes, when she realized that someone had changed her out of the festive sweater and peacoat she’d been wearing on Christmas Eve.

Into silk pajamas.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, sliding down the wall and burying her face in her knees. “Oh my god.”

She kept repeating those three words, shaking her head in disbelief.

John set his jacket around her shoulders and sat with her, pulling her against his shoulder and muttering assurances until Sherlock returned.

“Hospital,” the detective grunted, his face a little more flushed than it’d been when he left.

It was a literal nightmare.

Question after question. First from Lestrade, then Sherlock, then Mycroft.

Over and over. Always the same answer.

_She didn’t know._

Nurses floated around, sterile equipment and beeping machines in her peripheral; the soundtrack to her rising madness.

For her part, Amelia had done pretty well until the nurse helped her change into a hospital gown.

Written in thick black marker on her stomach was the word: “ _Surprise_ ”.

Fortunately, the nurse had a bucket in hand before Amelia could vomit into her lap.

She stared at her reflection for what felt like an eternity, waiting for everyone to have their turn looking at the words, taking pictures, asking more pointless questions.

There were a few healing bruises near her rib cage. A few cuts, nothing too serious.

No physical signs of sexual assault. Thank god.

The primary focus fell on the violent cuts and bruises around her wrists and ankles.

Those were fresh. Indicative of a struggle. _Bindings_ against her will.

The whole time, between interrogations or examinations, Amelia lay in her hospital bed and tried to will any explanation of her lost time.

_Jim Moriarty._ Sherlock had hissed his name like a curse a few times that day.

John tried to avoid saying it when he talked to her.

_He’d_ done something. He did something to her mind and she hated herself for not knowing what. She’d never felt more violated.

Her skin crawled as if he had manifested into some parasite that was waiting to strike.

She was discharged after nearly six hours of tests and observation. Largely she was healthy.

No present drugs in her system, though the blood work would be analyzed by the next morning to determine any long term exposure. No broken bones. No malnourishment. Aside from instructions to keep her wrists clean and bandaged, she was given a clean bill of physical health.

Returning to Baker Street felt like a dream.

Her room was exactly as she’d left it- wrapped gifts scattered throughout the room. Piles of clothes kicked to the side, her bed unmade.

Sherlock disappeared upstairs while John helped her settle in, tiding the space while she changed into a pair of sweats and an old shirt. He offered to stay with her, but Amelia needed to listen to the thoughts she’d been shoving back.

When she finally convinced John to leave her be, she stood in the center of the room, just staring at everything around her, trying to collect her bearings.

She could recall Christmas Eve.

Mrs. Hudson sending her off to the store for an onion. She remembered the queue and the email from her friend in New York, the excited voicemail… and then nothing until that morning.

Dizzy, Amelia moved to her bed, grabbing a pillow and screaming as loud as she could into the fluff. She screamed and screamed until her body shook and she couldn’t breathe. Dropping the pillow to the floor, the breathing turned into sobs where she buried her face in her hand.

Choked up sobs turned to dry heaving, with her using to her hang her head over a trash can.

She sat pathetically on the floor of her basement room, her body completely numb to the chill setting into her bones.

This was a cumulation of every terrible anxiety that had ever passed her mind.

Every nervous glance over her shoulder, every time she jumped when a door closed or a car honked. All built up into some horrible monstrosity that _she couldn’t even remember._

She didn’t hear the tentative knock on her door or the soft footfalls that stopped next to her.

“I suppose you don’t want any tea?” Sherlock asked sheepishly. When she didn’t answer, he set the mug he’d brought on her desk and moved onto the floor next to her.

He pulled his legs up, being careful not to touch her.

There was a pause, both Amelia and Sherlock froze, uncertain of what to say.

What was there to say? This was the cruelest form of torture.

She opened her mouth and closed it a few times, desperate to fill the air with some idle chatter, but the words wouldn’t come up. What was the point? Eyes searching the room, they fell on one of the delicately wrapped gifts by her feet.

Amelia leaned forward and plucked it out of the discard pile on the floor. Something else to talk about.

Heavens, she had no idea how much she needed that right now.

“This one was yours,” she stated, handing him the small parcel. “You can open it, if you want.”

It was a small box, no larger than the palm of his hand. When he hesitated, Amelia did her best to give him a reassuring smile but ended up just reaching forward and pulling the ribbon off of the top for him.

He pulled the wrapping paper free, revealing a small brown leather case.

“Go on,” she urged impatiently, her voice still raspy from her outburst. If she couldn’t be happy, dammit someone else would be.

Opening the box, Sherlock found a pair of cuff links, his initials S and H engraved on each one.

“The edges are the really cool part,” she explained, lifting one of the pieces with shaky fingers. “I managed to track down a collector who had some of Mozart’s broken violin strings.”

His eyes widened.

“His father kept a number of mementos,” she ran a finger over the thin material lining the cuff link. “Most of the major museums have what they need, this was something extra from a private collection ... he sold me a few centimeters of a particularly worn one, but it worked.”

“This is...” Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. A rare phenomenon.

Amelia felt her chest tighten again. Stupid idea. She was an idiot. This wasn’t going to work.

She still felt terrible.

“Awful timing, I’m sorry-,” she wiped at her eyes.

“Stop apologizing,” he scolded, taking the hand with the cuff link into his. “This is one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone has ever given me. Thank you.”

“I wish we could have done this on Christmas,” she mumbled, pulling her hand free. She replaced the link into the box. “Nothing feels real anymore. I feel like I’m just floating.”

“Shall I find the Santa hat?” he offered, earning a small chuckle from his companion. “We can have a do-over. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson find the boxes with the decorations again.”

“Maybe someone tucked the last few weeks of memories into the boxes as well,” she muttered, leaning her head against the wall with a sigh. “Can you find those for me?”

It was meant as a joke, a little dry humor to try and cheer herself up, but Sherlock looked to her with the utmost seriousness.

“I have every intention to do so,” he assured her earnestly.

There was something about it that sent Amelia's heart hammering against her chest. She couldn’t figure out if it was his tone or the way he so openly wore his feelings in front of her, a rare sight indeed.

Something had changed within him during the last month, and it was abundantly clear to her at that moment that _something_ had everything to do with her.

“It’s late,” she found herself saying. Old routines. Old habits. Lecture him to bed.

Safe habits. Safe routines.

“You should get some sleep,” she continued, standing up and offering her hand to him.

“I’m not sleeping tonight,” he replied quietly.

“And why not?” she tried to look firm, but fell short, instead deciding to cross her arms over her chest in an attempt to look stern.

“Are you?” he challenged back.

“That doesn’t matter,” she dismissed him. “You’re the super detective who needs to figure this out. You need your brain at full capacity.”

“I will,” he brushed past her, shaking out the covers on her bed and fluffing a few pillows. He dropped down at the far side, looking up at her expectantly. “ _Sit_.”

Rolling her eyes, Amelia plodded over, make a show of crawling under the covers.

“ _Shall I read you a bedtime story_?” he offered and Amelia wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. The small smirk that emerged at her bewildered look had her roll her eyes.

“Oh shut up,” she snorted, turning to her side. “Do you plan to sit there _all night?_ ”

He shrugged, lifting the blankets and sliding his feet under.

“If need be,” he replied, looking to her side table stack of novels. “Have you any good books?”

It was so surreal. Sherlock so easily falling into place in her little corner of the universe.

He plucked Pride and Prejudice out of the stack, gently tucking his gift next to the pile. Flipping through the first few pages, he looked down at her and smirked.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged-,” he started before Amelia swatted at his hand.

“You’re not actually going to do this, are you?” she asked through a giggle.

“Depends, will it cheer you up?” he asked.

“Exponentially,” she grinned. “It’s always been a dream of mine to have the book read by an eloquent British gentleman.”

“Just call me Mr. Darcy,” he teased, returning his focus on the book. “Now, _shush_.”

* * *

Sherlock didn’t have a word for it, not yet, at least.

That feeling in his chest when Amelia curled up against him in her sleep.

The overwhelming wave he’d felt when she’d opened the door to the hotel room, after a full day of tricks and fake outs.

It wasn’t _just_ relief at her being home. He’d been relieved when he’d saved John on numerous occasions. He’d been relieved when Irene confirmed she was still alive.

This was something else.

Something that penetrated far deeper than anything he’d felt for a platonic friend. John would call it something sentimental and sappy; _love_.

Sherlock held his breath when Amelia stirred. She repositioned, her back tucked against him, humming contentedly back to sleep.

It also didn’t help that he was decidedly attracted to her on a physical level.

Adjusting his pajama bottoms, he fell back into his thoughts.

He knew that Moriarty had an end game with all of this.

The madman had tried to distract him from solving the case by abducting Amelia, but when that hadn’t worked... he just gave her back?

_No._ It didn’t make sense. Not with the video and photograph he’d sent.

This was _intentional_. Moriarty intended to strike and whatever he put in her mind would inevitably rear its ugly head.

He leaned forward, wrapping a tentative arm around her torso, his face pressed in her hair.

It smelled all wrong. Sterile and not at all like the floral soaps she liked to use. Plus it’d been straightened and pulled into a braid, not the unruly mess of auburn curls that framed her face like a halo. All wrong.

It also implied that someone had taken the time to ensure she’d been _washed_.

He just hoped it was of her own doing.

God, for her sake he hoped _a lot_ of things hadn’t happened to her.

Sherlock had promised to try and find the lost memories for her, but what if the truth was uglier than anyone could handle? Could he reveal what he found at the risk of hurting her _again_?

She had such a soft heart. He thought about the cuff links she’d taken the time to have customized. Mozart’s string. Of course, there was no proof, though Amelia was the type to try and track down someone reputable, the thought alone was enough to send Sherlock’s heart hammering against his sternum. 

No one looked at him the way she did or listened intently as he rambled through theories on cases out loud. She always made sure he was safe after an altercation with a suspect, lecturing him to sit down and wait while she cleaned his wounds.

He couldn’t imagine a life without her smile and bright-eyed excitement. She saw so much beauty in the ordinary- ordinary people, ordinary places. Hell, she could take a flower and turn it into a masterpiece.

Perhaps that’s what she’d done to him? Pulled the most beautiful colors from him forward.

Oh.

_Oh._

He _did_ love her, _didn’t he?_

And not that cliche, over the top, romantic movie love- no- this was something fuller, brighter, deeper. This was- intimate secrets whispered over tea in the middle of the night- _love_.

This was- holding her through the night to scare off the demons- _love_.

Sherlock had never felt this way before. He’d never been attached to another person like this.

It was terrifying. It was exciting. Part of him wanted to run upstairs and ask John all about it, and pretend to be annoyed when the doctor smirked and said “I told you so”.

Even so, there was a voice that reminded him to keep his head straight. That he didn’t get to enjoy this like someone normal.

_Moriarty knew and wanted to exploit this vulnerability for fun._

Amelia rolled to face him. His arm was still hanging over her waist when she opened her eyes and smiled sleepily up at him.

Tilting toward her, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, sending her back to a peaceful sleep.

Closing his eyes briefly, the message Mycroft had shown him on the bathroom mirror of the hotel flashed before him. 

Written in what Mycroft later confirmed was Amelia's blood.

**_"Wear your rue with a difference, Sherlock Holmes."_ **

To hell with _that_.

Sherlock would burn the city down before letting Moriarty have his way.

* * *


	19. Willow

* * *

_I used to love playing pretend when I was a boy. My sister and I would spend hours dreaming up impossible scenes to play in; dinosaurs, spacemen, anything you could imagine, we would come up with._

_That’s what this has felt like- playing pretend. I don’t mind it, personally. Given all that has happened, it’s a bit nice to see my two dearest friends get on and enjoy a short break from solving crimes and dealing with Moriarty._

_It’s just, unfortunately, the problem with playing pretend is that eventually your mum has to call you in for dinner and you’re thrown back into reality._

* * *

_And if it was an open-shut case, I never would have known from the look on your face. Lost in your current like a priceless wine._ **_\- Willow (Taylor Swift)_ **

* * *

“And what?” Amelia challenged a laugh on her lips, teacup in her lap and watching John in amusement. “You’re opening the present or so help me John Watson, I’ll tell Mrs. Hudson.”

The doctor lifted the bundle of perfectly wrapped boxes tentatively, giving the smallest one a shake.

“It doesn’t feel right,” he continued, and Amelia sent him a pointed look.

“I opened mine,” Sherlock commented, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair.

“You did?” John gaped at his friend in disbelief. “When?”

“A few nights ago,” Amelia waved her hand, not wanting to go into detail about her complete meltdown that first night. “And Mrs. Hudson opened hers yesterday. Just open it!”

Mrs. Hudson was gifted an all-expense paid spa trip to Bath with the three ladies she played cards with each week. The housekeeper had practically screamed with excitement, pulling Amelia into a tight hug, thanking her profusely before making phone calls to set up a date.

It was nice to have a bit of normal.

“Fine,” John grumbled, opening the first box.

All in all, he loved his gifts.

Two cashmere sweaters in navy and merlot, and an original 1st edition of Grey’s Anatomy.

He set the book aside and pulled Amelia into a hug, and even though he tried to blink away the tears in his eyes, she definitely saw them glisten.

No one mentioned the lapse in time often. Only when Sherlock was working on the case did he pepper he with questions. John talked about it even less, which was sweet, but no matter how much Amelia tried to pretend things were ok, she was still reeling from it all.

The Christmas decorations had come down after the New Year, leaving the apartment sparse when she returned, having left with it covered in lights and tinsel. The days were easing into February, while she was still waiting for January.

She’d started therapy the day before, at John’s insistence. Twice a week for the foreseeable future. The hope was that the sessions would unlock whatever secrets were hidden in her subconscious.

More than anything, though, she was tired of everyone looking at her like she was this fragile thing, waiting to shatter at the lightest touch.

She’d been home a little over a week now, and it was getting old. Amelia wasn’t one who did well with coddling.

Even her mother had become almost unbearable. Constantly calling and texting.

The only person she had the energy to deal with was Sherlock. He was careful not to overstep his boundaries, but also read her like a book when she was uncomfortable.

He’d insisted on accompanying her anywhere she wanted to go, including the shops when she decided to pick out a new winter coat.

It was nice.

Amelia had always enjoyed spending time with both John and Sherlock alone, but while John felt like an older brother, Sherlock gave her butterflies whenever he spoke.

Greg had been sweet enough to avoid calling him in unless absolutely necessary. And on the one occasion he did, Sherlock made sure Amelia was left with Molly at the hospital. Safe and secure while he and John went to the crime scene.

Otherwise, Sherlock was always at her side. But it wasn’t as smothering as anyone else. He didn’t nitpick and ask her how she was feeling or fetch her things because he pitied her. It was a natural presence, a little protective, but safe and warm.

Amelia had no problem falling back into old routines, sketching by the fire while Sherlock read and John worked through a crossword. It was what she needed.

Nighttime was the only thing that had changed drastically.

Ever since that first night in her room, Amelia and Sherlock had spent every night together, alternating between beds.

The first night in his room, Amelia had burrowed her face into his pillow, much to his amusement, trying to guess the elements of his cologne.

“I’ll never tell,” he teased when she listed a few common scents.

“I will figure it out,” she vowed.

And she did. He didn’t bother hiding the bottle and a quick google search revealed a blend of pine and light jasmine.

It certainly didn’t account for the smell of firewood, old books, and wool that seemed to be all his.

Neither of them had tried to name whatever this had turned into. There wasn’t “I love you’s” or kisses in the morning. They never had sex.

It felt like an entirely natural progression of things, granted, with the underlying context of kidnapping and memory loss. But Amelia didn’t mind. She was happy. Sherlock seemed happy. That was good enough for her.

She wasn’t so naive to assume that this would last forever, either.

They’d discussed it extensively, lying awake next to one another and dissecting potential plans that Moriarty had for the future and a grand reveal was the first idea they’d agreed upon.

It was coming. She didn’t know when or how, but it was.

Amelia just wanted to enjoy this little slice of joy that they had as long as she could. They could name things and have serious talks about the future, later on. For now, she was content in this vacation-like bliss.

* * *

“10... 9... 8...”

It was a small get together, Ruthie, Greg, Molly, and the residents of Baker Street, but it meant the world to Amelia.

John had pulled up a video of the New Year’s Eve celebrations, Mrs. Hudson had pulled out hats and noisemakers, and the plan was to count down until midnight.

“..2...1! Happy New Year!”

Laughing, kisses were peppered onto everyone’s cheeks. When Amelia passed Sherlock, he linked his finger with hers, giving her a small smile when she glanced curiously in his direction. 

Turning around, she pecked a kiss on his cheek, tapping the tip of his nose with a finger, before returning to the others.

More than anything, Amelia wanted to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him like she meant it. But they hadn’t even discussed their unspoken thing or shared the first kiss at all.

So, she held her composure and sent him smiles whenever he looked in her direction.

Greg and Molly left after Mrs. Hudson announced that she needed sleep. Ruthie was offered Amelia’s bed, but the women stayed up in the flat with John, splitting a bottle of gin and laughing next to the fire.

“Christ, I needed this,” Ruthie leaned her head back, resting up against Amelia's legs hanging from the sofa.

“No kidding,” Amelia murmured, taking the bottle from John and taking a large swallow. Making a face and handed it to Ruthie. “Gin. Awful.”

“Gets better the longer you drink it,” John voiced, sprawled over his chair.

“Tastes like a liquid pine tree,” Amelia grumbled.

“I bet you like rum or whiskey,” Ruthie held up the bottle to John.

“Bloody Americans,” John rolled his eyes. “Terrible taste in everything.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Amelia fell back, throwing a pillow over her head for effect. “Deep-fried Oreos are the shit.”

“Deep-fried... Oreos?” Ruthie poked her in the leg, the gin bottle making a return. “I love Oreos.”

“They’re like, deep-fried in pancake batter,” Amelia explained, popping back up. “It makes them all gooey and amazing.”

“Holy shit,” Ruthie paused. “We need to make some.”

“Not in my kitchen,” Sherlock threw blankets around the room, snagging the gin from Ruthie and taking a sip for himself.

“Sher...lock,” Amelia slurred, putting emphasis on the final “k”. “There are eyeballs and a human tongue in the freezer.”

“We _can_ make Oreos,” John held up a hand.

“Deep-fried Oreos,” Amelia clarified with a wavering finger. “A _very_ important distinction.”

“You’ll burn the flat down, no,” Sherlock countered.

“Not right now,” Amelia laughed. “Silly Sherlock. We don’t have Oreos.”

“Which is a tragedy,” Ruthie complained, stealing back the gin and finishing what was left. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders like a cocoon, tackling Amelia onto the sofa. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too,” Amelia snickered, pressing a sloppy kiss on her cousin's cheek.

“Ugh, gross, you slobbered on me,” Ruthie dropped back, wiping at her cheek in disgust.

“You got emotional, consequences,” Amelia gestured above her, hand swaying while she examined it in the air.

What Sherlock first noticed was the way Ruthie stiffened at the sight of the vicious scarring and scabbing on her cousin's wrist. The second thing he noticed was the way Amelia went quiet when her drunken focus fell on the injury.

John let out a snore and Sherlock jumped up.

“Bed,” he announced, earning a chorus of complaints from Amelia and Ruthie. “You’ve both had plenty to drink. Happy New Year, bedtime.”

“I’m _not_ moving,” Ruthie announced, curling up on the sofa, making it as difficult as possible for Amelia to crawl over her.

“Enjoy John and his snoring,” Amelia stumbled over the edge of the rug and caught herself in the doorway between the living area and kitchen. “Mmmm goodnight!”

“Don’t be loud!” Ruthie called once Amelia and Sherlock rounded the corner to his bedroom.

Sherlock had to redirect Amelia a couple of times, helping her navigate the hallway without smashing her head or breaking anything. She dropped onto his bed with a long sigh.

“What?” he stood over her, brow quirked.

“I think you’re right,” she answered, eyes opening to look at him. “Your bed is the best.”

“I’m never wrong,” he answered, dropping next to her with a soft thud.

“So very humble,” she rolled toward him, amusement in her eyes. “You’re the humblest guy I know, Sherlock Holmes.”

He turned his head to better see her, his chest hammering once he realized how close her face was to his.

Was this the right time? They’d both had a bit to drink and he didn’t want to escalate things to an inappropriate level until they were sober and-

Amelia pressed her lips against his, her fingers threading their way through his curls.

He pulled her closer, hand cupping her cheek while he reciprocated in turn. It felt like everything the movies and books he’d read about said a kiss was supposed to be.

His brain felt like it’s erupted in fireworks, and the rest of his body-

“ _Oh_ ,” he pulled away, clearing his throat. She leaned on her elbow, watching him try to adjust his pants.

“I didn’t mean to get you all fired up,” she smirked up at him. “I feel a little powerful right now.”

He turned to her, scowling at her words. Cruel. She was being _mean_ and enjoying it.

If he half a mind- nope. _Gentleman_. He was a _gentleman_ and he was going to change into his sleeping pants and go to sleep. He announced as much, stood up, and locked himself in the bathroom with a change of clothes until he pulled himself together.

He stared at his reflection, hands gripping the sides of the sink. _Gentleman_.

If things came to _that_ , he’d make sure it was _right_.

Groaning, he threw his night clothes on and returned to the room.

Amelia was on her back, snoring loudly, having only managed to change into an oversized shirt.

Running a hand down his face, Sherlock pushed her aside and threw himself onto his side of the bed.

Amelia rolled onto him, arms snaking around his waist and her hips against his. 

_Gentleman_.

* * *

“Mrs. Peacock, in the library with...” Amelia shuffled through her notes. “The rope!”

Sherlock lowered his hand and smirked.

“ _Nope_ ,” he replied, popping the “p” and earning a fresh scowl from her.

“What do you mean, ‘ _nope_ ’? You didn’t even open the packet,” she protested.

“I told you not to play him,” John mumbled, turning the page to his paper. “It never ended a well.”

“It was Mrs. Peacock, and it was in the library,” he contended before flipping a card with his fingers. “But it wasn’t the rope.”

“But- you-,” Amelia scrambled through her notes and cards. “Impossible. Because then if you have the rope it had to have been the pistol.”

Sherlock handed her the envelope and with a litany of curses, sure enough, Mrs. Peacock, in the library, with the pistol.

“How did you...?” she stammered. “I didn’t... my cards...?”

“You touch the pieces you have at the beginning of the game,” he pointed out, lifting the tiny candlestick. “Unconsciously, of course, but you do. It’s an endearing tick, but sufficient to win.”

Amelia threw her cards into the game board, gaping at him in shock.

“I told you,” John sang, folding his newspaper. “You would have been better at Monopoly or Life.”

“I just...” Amelia shook her head, lifting the three cards from the envelope again. “I’ve never lost at this game before.”

“It is easier when it’s only two people,” Sherlock tried to offer but she shook her head.

“No. This is-,” she sat back into the sofa with a sigh. “I’m going to have to think about this. Restrategize.”

“It isn’t chess,” John chuckled.

“No, this is far more serious John,” she looked up at him firmly. “I’m going to beat him.”

“ _Good luck,_ ” Sherlock mumbled and she whipped her head in his direction.

“I’m going to. And you’re going to eat humble pie, accepting that I, Amelia Ophelia Brenner, am better than you at something,” she announced, hopping to her feet.

“You’re better at painting than I am,” he suggested. “This is a game based on observation and deduction. You _can’t_ win.”

“That’s why my victory will be all the sweeter,” she poked him in the chest with a grin. “Just you wait.”

“When shall I send out the wedding invitations?” John asked the pair. “I picked a lovely periwinkle card stock you’ll love.”

“I think a summer wedding would be nice,” Amelia paused. “Find a little church in the countryside. Wildflowers everywhere.”

“Allergies could be risky,” John replied. “Wouldn’t want to be sneezing on your wedding day.”

“Ah, but I assume you’ll be best man, so I would hope you’d be on hand wut Jaime antihistamines?”

“Of course,” John nodded solemnly. “Assuming Sherlock hasn’t taken them all first.”

“I would have accounted for allergies,” Sherlock piped up. “The insects would be my primary concern.”

“ _Bees_ ,” Amelia pointed out in agreement. “I’m actually very allergic.”

“So we’re back to allergies,” John said.

“I know you’re allergic,” Sherlock looked at Amelia. “Which is why I renewed your epi-pen after it expired two months ago. I’ll make sure both John and myself have a backup.”

Amelia’s hand went to her chest, eyes wide, with a small “aww”.

“Clearly we’re going to have to bump the date up,” John snickered. “A nice spring wedding?”

“Rain,” both Amelia and Sherlock replied in unison.

“Also periwinkle is nice, but what about a yellow?” Amelia hummed in thought. “Or a tasteful navy with pastel pinks?”

“You just want to cover the tables in peonies,” Sherlock snorted, fishing for his phone after it chirped with a new message.

“Is that so wrong? They’re incredibly good luck for marriages,” she sighed dreamily.

Sherlock ignored the comment, reading over the short message from Mycroft a few times, just to be sure he understood it correctly.

**Moriarty turned himself in.**

**MH**

And just like that, the fun was over.

He looked toward Amelia, who was giggling with John over fictional seating arrangements, wrapped-up in Sherlock’s robe.

This was the part he’d been dreading. The game was on, and Amelia was back on the board. This last week being so peaceful for them all. The last tease before things became messy.

Sherlock had no doubt that by the end of this Amelia would know full well what had happened, and that terrified him the most.

* * *

_Now this is an open-shut case, guess I should have known from the look on your face. Every bait and switch was a work of art._


	20. Rosemary

* * *

“We found him,” Mycroft explained a week later at the Diogenes Club.

“He turned himself in,” Sherlock translated briskly, crossing his arms.

“Regardless, he’s under lock and key,” his brother looked to Amelia. “Her Majesty’s Government intends to move quickly toward Magistrate’s Court and we will require your statement.”

“You have my statement,” Amelia replied, arching a brow.

“In person,” he clarified.

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock interjected. “It’s hardly been any time since Moriarty-”

“All the more reason to move forward with haste,” Mycroft countered sharply. “While the evidence is still fresh.” His eyes drifted toward the healing wounds on Amelia’s wrist.

“We have no idea the extent of the abuse,” Sherlock shook his head. “There isn’t enough evidence to move forward yet. Not while we’re still working through everything. We can’t risk him being let off.”

“Between Chemco, my uncle, and the kidnapping alone, that should be enough, right?” Amelia asked the elder brother, who nodded slowly. “That’s what the case is all about at this point.”

“If we’re so fortunate to have additional evidence by the time of the proceeding, we will adjust our case a necessary,” Mycroft closed a file on his desk and looked to Sherlock firmly. “Do not let your emotions cloud your judgment, brother mine. It’s unbecoming.”

He confirmed the details with Amelia, assuring her that Anthea would be in touch later that week.

Sherlock all but stormed out of the club, throwing up a hand to summon a taxi. Amelia hurried over, pulling his hand down and squeezing it between hers.

“Why don’t we walk a bit?” she suggested, pulling him along without too much of a struggle.

Sherlock knew he wasn’t mad at Mycroft or Amelia for that matter- he was mad at Moriarty. Everything was ticking along, Sherlock was certain, to the madman’s plans.

He had hoped that Amelia would have had more time to adjust to things again. Heal. But of course, things were never easy for Sherlock. Moriarty was pushing along the court date for a reason. An attack? A grand reveal? Of what?

“There’s steam coming out of your ears,” Amelia commented, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“I don’t like this,” he grumbled, looking over at her.

“I don’t either,” she replied, giving his hand a nervous squeeze. “But it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“I’d have hoped to help you parse through- _things_ ,” he sighed, gesturing in her direction. “If something were to happen and I couldn’t help you-”

“You sound like my mother,” she scoffed, laughing at his offended expression. “Sherlock, we can figure it out. The Magistrate won’t have him or anyone else, aside from people we trust.”

“Until he pays off a guard to stab you in the loo,” he huffed under his breath.

“My, what a dark place your Mind Palace must be,” she tutted. “Surely you have brighter rooms to enjoy? A greenhouse?”

He did, but he would never tell her that it contained every small intricacy he’d picked up on her. Her favorite foods and colours. Favorite songs and movies. Even minute details like what shampoo she preferred.

“I need to stay ahead of him,” he stopped at the side of the walkway, hands on her shoulders. “If anything more were to happen to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Avenge me, I hope?” she teased.

“ _You have no idea,_ ” he mumbled. He’d tear across the world for this woman and those that hurt her? He had a special room in the Mind Palace for recalling _those_ types of things.

Amelia looked at him thoughtfully, reaching up and cupping the side of his face gently.

Her hands were warmer than his.

“We’re a reasonably intelligent bunch,” she assured him with that damned smile. “It’ll be okay, Sherlock. Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.”

“If you die?” he asked, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I suppose I’ll have to help you from the great beyond,” she laughed. “Though that might prove difficult given your disbelief in ghosts.”

“I’ll hold a seance then,” he offered. “Only once. Just to be sure.”

They continued walking, hand in hand, Sherlock beginning to feel a little lighter as they joked and chatted.

“If I die?” he asked and she paused in thought.

“Don’t even joke, I don’t know what anyone would do without the great Sherlock Holmes,” Amelia answered with a frown. “Think of all the opportunistic criminals! And all the unsolved crimes, you know the Yard is basically _useless_.”

He knew she was being sarcastic and trying to inflate his ego at the same time, but it didn’t do much to distract him from the problem at hand.

All this joy and peace was at risk. This woman who’d stumbled quite literally into his life and brought with her the the light of the sun itself. She was too good for this nightmare he’d inadvertently brought her into, and he would spend the rest of his life ensuring she never feared another day again.

“Ruthie owns it now,” Amelia broke his train of thought, her hand leaving his to look at the building next to her. They’d made it as far as the old flower shop a few blocks away from Baker Street.

It was now boarded off, the caution tape replaced with plywood and keep out signs. The brick had been cleaned of soot, but largely the place remained unchanged from the day he’d found the Monkshood.

“Have you considered reopening?” he asked, her fingers reaching to touch where the front door used to be.

“Ruthie asked but-,” she gave a low sigh. “I guess I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop with whatever is hiding in my head.”

It was a rare sight to see Amelia deflated. The dynamics of their relationship usually rested upon Sherlock being on the receiving end of a hopeful statement or reassuring comment.

He hesitated, watching her look up forlornly at the upper levels of the shop.

Assurance. Comfort.

He knew what emotions he needed to convey, but had no idea how to begin-

_Trust your instincts, you bloody idiot,_ John’s voice scolded from the back of his mind.

Sherlock wrapped his arms over her shoulders from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head and following her gaze up.

“You _obviously_ couldn’t move back in,” he said.

“And why not?”

“You’d _freeze_ at night,” he smirked to himself.

“Not ready to retire and become a flower man? _Shame_ ,” she turned around in his arms and tapped the tip of his nose affectionately. “Could still have the same amount of blood and guts. Roses and the like love all that, remember?”

“Maybe Mrs. Hudson will let us turn the basement into a greenhouse,” he offered, following behind in a few steps when she started back down the road.

“And why not your room?” she challenged. “There’s better sunlight after all.”

“I _like_ my room,” he protested.

“And I _like_ my little apartment,” she countered. “Though I suppose John will have to move out eventually... I hope he finds someone soon. He’d make such a great husband and father.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes while he snorted.

“If you’re so confident, marry him yourself,” he replied.

“Maybe I will,” she laughed, speeding up when she saw 221B ahead.

Before he could catch up, she sprinted inside and raced to the sound of John’s voice greeting them from upstairs.

“John Watson, will you marry me?” she asked, trying to catch her breath while Sherlock strolled past her with brows raised.

“Excuse me?” the doctor lowered his newspaper in surprise. “I thought we’d decided on the table settings for the two of you?”

“Amelia believes you’d be a good husband and father, so I encouraged her to take advantage of the opportunity before it became too late,” Sherlock explained, dropping into his chair and watching the exchange in amusement.

“All right then,” John set the paper aside and stood up. “Let’s do it.”

_Wait_. Sherlock’s head snapped in Amelia’s direction.

“How many kids do you think? Two?”

“Two _dozen_ , more like it,” John took her hand and examined it. “Your hands are tiny. I’ll have to get my mother’s ring refit.”

“You two aren’t serious?” Sherlock stammered out, but the pair ignored him in lieu of their supposed engaged bliss.

“We could always buy a matching set,” Amelia suggested, holding both his hands in hers excitedly.

No, no, that’s where Sherlock’s hands went-

“I think that’s quite enough,” the detective cleared his throat and the pair finally glanced over.

“Oh no, I think this is a _spectacular_ idea,” Amelia grabbed John’s hand and placed it around her waist, leaning into him with a grin. “We’re _already_ best friends, and I’m told that’s the secret to a healthy marriage.”

“Decent age difference, well educated in the sciences,” John added. “And we both have a good appreciation for the arts.”

“Nope,” Sherlock stood up and pulled them apart. “How about not? You two wouldn’t even be able to have sex, it’d be too weird.”

“For _you_ maybe,” John shot back with a smirk.

“Oh dear,” Amelia’s hand found John’s again. “I do believe Mr. Holmes is _jealous_.”

“Why wouldn’t he be? Our stationary would say; _Dr. and Dr. Watson_.”

“I _do_ like the sound of that,” she grinned.

“And we are done,” Sherlock pulled Amelia away and sat her down on the sofa with a huff. “I’m not jealous.”

“Someone’s grumpy,” Amelia teased, standing up and giving Sherlock’s hair a ruffle. “I’ve got to call my mom. I promised I'd tell her about the meeting. Let me know when you guys are ready for dinner.”

She proceeded down the stairs with a final chuckle, the door to her basement flat closing.

Sherlock immediately turned to John with a single quirked brow.

“Don’t do that again,” he stated firmly.

“Put my hand on her waist? You know, _she_ put it there,” John answered, coolly moving toward his chair and ignoring his friend’s glare.

“I know what you’re doing and it isn’t going to work,” Sherlock shot back tersely. He returned to his chair and grabbed a book off the table. Flipping through it, he peered back over at John again. “I mean, Dr. and Dr. Watson? Ridiculous.”

“I also like children,” the doctor hummed, returning to his paper.

“She _kissed_ me the other night,” Sherlock blurted out. “So, just saying.”

John rolled his eyes, flattening the paper to look up.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock stuffed his face in his book, pretending to read until he felt John’s lingering gaze on him. “How am I an idiot?”

“You two-,” John shook his head with a low shucker. “I’ve never seen such infatuated but clueless people in my life. You care for her, don’t you? That’s the whole point of this nonsense with Moriarty.”

_He did._

“And?” Sherlock pried, hoping that maybe his friend could provide more insight into these unusual feelings he’d been working through.

“She clearly cares for you in a similar manner,” John continued slowly.

“She was ready to marry you just moments ago,” Sherlock furrowed his brows.

“You’re really thick at this, aren’t you?” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We were _teasing_ you. I have no desire to marry Amelia, she’s like my sister. I have about as much desire to marry her as I would marry _you_.”

“That...” he groaned and threw his head back on the chair. “Why is this so complex?”

“You _could_ just tell her you love her,” John suggested with a shrug.

_He- what- the- no- not- he- didn’t- but-_

“Ugh,” Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms stubbornly. “These attachments are making me weak.”

“Oh boohoo,” John scoffed. “You found someone compatible and willing to deal with your temper tantrums. _How awful._ ”

“I’m serious, John,” Sherlock leaned forward, his expression falling earnest. “I don’t know what to do about Moriarty.”

John sensed the shift in emotion and studied his friend over briefly. Sherlock had found that John Watson was the type of person he could read in an instant- the doctor always wearing some kind of expression on his face that revealed his true thoughts.

Did he pity him? That’s what it looked like. John felt _sorry_ for him. Pathetic. He thought SHerlock was a pathetic fialure.

But- John wasn’t the type, he reminded himself at the doctor's expression.

This involved him too. Amelia was as much his friend as she was... _whatever_ _she_ _was_... to Sherlock.

“He turned himself in,” John recited. “And Mycroft wants him to be prosecuted.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock nodded.

“He’s going to do something,” John voiced, agreeing with Sherlock’s thoughts out loud. “Trigger the memories? Torment us a little longer? We have to remember that his target is ultimately you. What would hurt you the most? Losing the case? Losing Mia?”

_All of it_ , a quiet voice whispered.

“And that’s what concerns me,” Sherlock confessed. “He’s playing too many variables this time. First, he tried to make me fail at solving cases by distracting me through Amelia’s disappearance. Then she returns, no recollection of events, and a week later he turns himself in.”

“What’s his end goal?” John considered quietly. “Why is he so fixated on you?”

“ _I’m not mad like him_ ,” Sherlock realized, straightening up.

That was it. That was the difference between him and Moriarty. Sherlock had people who cared for him and he cared for in return. He had John and Amelia, Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade.

“He wants you to feel weak because you... care?” John asked, trying to follow along as Sherlock explained.

“He thinks I’m sentimental, and in his mind, that’s a detriment,” he replied, pacing the room. “That’s why he picked the clues he picked- Persephone? Ophelia? The War of the Roses? He’s well aware that in my sentiment, I would know these things and relate them back to Amelia.”

“And that, he hoped, would have distracted you and proven his point,” John nodded. “But it didn’t work.”

“No, so he knew he needed to dig deeper,” Sherlock pointed to John. “I don’t think he intended to do anything to Amelia _initially_. He wanted to prove a point. Scare her a little, and show me that these relationships hurt my abilities.”

“So what does that mean now?” John asked, now at the literal edge of his seat, watching Sherlock walk back and forth.

“It means that he’s going to continue playing on that sentiment,” Sherlock deduced confidently. “Another poem or a flower? He wants to get into my head and is doing so through hers.”

“That’s reassuring,” Amelia commented, falling backward onto the sofa. “At least he’ll leave my head soon. It’s really strange not recalling nearly a month in time. Did I menstruate? Who dealt with that? Where did I shower? What if I’m missing a kidney or something?”

“You have both kidneys,” John assured her quickly. “But that is a good point to consider- what do we do when he pulls the curtain on her memories, so to speak?”

“I’m preparing for the worst and hoping for the best,” Amelia supplied, staring up at the ceiling. “At least, that’s why my therapist is telling me to do.”

“We won’t know until it happens,” Sherlock agreed tersely. He hated the unknown, the unsolvable. He especially hated that James Moriarty knew something he didn’t.

“Then we watch out for signs and go from there?” John looked between the pair. “Proceed with caution?”

“For now,” Sherlock replied. “For now.”

* * *

The morning of the Magistrate hearing, Sherlock hovered over her. He hovered while she ate breakfast, hovered while she got dressed (though he did turn around after she threw a shoe toward his general direction), and hovered on their way to the taxi outside.

“Sherlock, you’ll be the first to know if something weird happens,” she promised him, patting his hand in reassurance. “I really don’t think anyone would be so bold as to do something right on the courthouse steps.”

“Just keep staying alert,” he mumbled, eyes scanning the roads, the front of the taxi, the driver.

The ride to the courthouse was blessedly short, Amelia growing tired of Sherlock’s overzealous actions. He held a hand up and made sure no one outside the courthouse was too close. Amelia snorted and pulled out her wallet.

Once Sherlock was out of the taxi, Amelia paid the driver. He paused, counting the bills before reaching into his sun visor. Pulling an envelope free, he passed it to Amelia.

Before she could ask questions, Mycroft approached and reminded the pair that they were needed inside. Amelia tucked the envelope away into her jacket, sliding out of the cab and following behind the Holmes brothers with more questions than answers at this point.

They moved through security, and before stepping into the chambers, Amelia excused herself to go to the restroom, with Mycroft calling after her to hurry.

Slipping into one of the stalls, Amelia took the moment of privacy to take a breath and pull the envelope free.

_Hopefully, it wasn’t anthrax,_ she thought dryly, feeling the paper from the outside.

There was something inside, a piece of a fern or pine. Ripping the top, she emptied its contents on her lap, lifting the small sprig up to better examine it.

_Rosemary_ , she recognized immediately, fingers running over the delicate periwinkle blooms.

It had to be a little gift from Moriarty. It was too bizarre to treat as some random act.

_Why this though?_

She checked the inside of the envelope for anything else, and finding nothing, she tucked it back into the paper and folded it into her coat. _Weird_.

Sherlock was outside the bathrooms, waiting with his eyes mid-roll while Mycroft lectured in the background.

“Thank goodness,” he grumbled when Amelia returned. “I couldn’t take another second with him.”

She fell in step with him, thinking to herself how to address the bizarre interaction. Pulling the envelope free, she held it up to him.

“The taxi driver gave this to me when I paid,” she explained when they stopped in front of the courtroom, Mycroft stepping inside with instructions to wait until they were summoned.

Sherlock plucked the rosemary free, brows furrowed while he studied it.

“Rosemary,” she supplied with a small shrug of her shoulders. “Nothing else though. No note.”

“Rosemary,” he repeated to himself. “And the taxi driver gave it to you?”

He looked at her reaction and she nodded slowly.

They were both thinking the same thing.

“Yeah,” she made a face. “Generally means love, lust, and mourning… though it’s been a minute since I last worked with it. I’m not sure what it would… why he would send it, you know?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, pulling out his phone and sending John a picture with a request to double-check any other meaning behind the plant.

Amelia sighed.

There was something irritatingly familiar about the plant that made her run through every bit of flowers knowledge she possessed. It grew in coastal climates. Used in cooking, has a salty texture…

“Amelia, the Magistrate will be hearing from you now,” Mycroft peeked his head into the hall, guiding Amelia into the chambers to give her statement.

Once the doors closed, Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a new message from John.

He didn’t even have to look, the flower staring up at him from his palm. He knew exactly what this meant and exactly why the taxi driver gave it to her.

**_There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember._ **

Oh no, no, no… Stuffing his phone into his pocket, Sherlock slipped into the courtroom, earning a pointed glare from his brother when he sat down next to him.Amelia was settling into the witness’ chair, nervously toying with the edge of her shirt sleeves.

“We have a problem,” Sherlock murmured to his older brother passing him the sprig of rosemary. “Amelia received _this_ in the taxi.”

Mycroft’s face went ghost white.

“We can’t interrupt,” Mycroft grunted in frustration, watching Amelia intensely.

“Dr. Brenner, do you recognize this man?” the representative of the court asked her, holding up a photograph of Jim Moriarty.

“I do,” Amelia answered confidently, blinking a few times and frowning to herself when the representative turned to grab another piece of evidence.

“Can you please tell us how you are familiar with him?”

“I…” Amelia’s voice caught. “I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”

“How are you familiar with this man?”

“ _Who are we talking about?”_ came Amelia’s blank-faced reply, confusion evident on her face.

Oh _nononono_. Sherlock could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Months of work. Months of effort were about to go down the drain.

“If I may?” Mycroft stepped toward the representative, murmuring something into his ear. The panel of judges looked absolutely scandalized at the interruption.

“Excuse me,” the female barrister approached the bench, speaking in a low voice to the trio.

“We will grant this request,” the center judge, a man, replied firmly. “Return in one hour.”

Mycroft practically dragged Amelia out of the room, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. Once they were in the hall, the barrister looked to Mycroft furiously.

“Mind explaining what the hell just happened in there?” she barked.

“Just, bear with me,” Mycroft released Amelia’s arm after Sherlock smacked his hand.

Cautiously, Sherlock touched her shoulder.

“Amelia?” he asked, and her head snapped toward him. Her face was sheet white, pupils dilated, breathing rapidly.

“Sherlock,” she breathed. _“Oh my god.”_

Sherlock saw that Mycroft was busy trying to calm the barrister and took it upon himself to guide Amelia to a more secluded area. He sat her on a bench, taking one of her hands protectively.

“What happened?” he pressed, keeping his voice low, controlled. He didn’t want to frighten her more than she obviously was.

“I remember everything,” she whispered, tears threatening to fall over her bottom lashes. “Oh my god, Sherlock… it’s…”

She pulled her hand out of his and buried her face into her palms, hunching forward.

“I can’t do this,” she choked out, green eyes looking at him wildly.

“You have to,” he insisted. “Whatever it is, we will work through it, but you can’t let him walk away.”

“You don’t understand,” she swallowed, her whole body shaking. “I can’t. I… it’s… just…”

“You’re the key to this whole case, Amelia,” he reminded her tersely. “I’m seldom one to beg, but you have to push through. It’s for one day.”

“And if it goes to _trial_?” she snapped sharply, her voice rising. “And the _press_? And his little goons waiting in the shadows to strike? Sherlock, no. I’m not…”

She stood up on wobbly legs, backing away from him.

“ _I’m going home_ ,” she choked out.

“Amelia,” he called after her retreating figure, cursing under his breath as he passed Mycroft.

“What is going on?” Mycroft demanded. “We need to be back in an hour!”

“I’m working on it,” Sherlock huffed, sprinting after the terrified woman. He found her on the court steps, legs tucked to her chest, muttering to herself under her breath. “ _Mia_.”

The nickname pulled her back and she stilled, silencing with a shake of her head.

“I’m not doing it,” she repeated fiercely. “Call anyone else. My mother. My cousin. I don’t care. I’m not doing it.”

“Don’t think about that right now,” Sherlock sat down next to her. “You need to talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

She kept her eyes glued to the steps in front of her.

Sherlock took the opportunity to hammer out a text to John. Whatever was happening, they needed to get out of the public eye for a moment, the court be damned.

“Sherlock,” she turned to him, eyes swollen, her whole being trembling. “It was… there aren’t words.”

_He’d kill him._ Sherlock decided. He’d rip his spine free from his body. Throw him off the courthouse roof. Spend the rest of his life ensuring no one ever touched a single hair on her again.

She pulled up her shirt sleeves, holding up the pair of healing scars toward him.

“20 days,” she stated bitterly. “If it were possible, I would have ripped my own hands off to escape. _I can’t_ , Sherlock. _Please_. I just… I don’t even know what… Christ, _he’s a monster._ ”

“We need to get ready,” Mycroft was jogging down the steps toward them. “The court wants to start up early.”

“It’s not happening,” Sherlock shot back. “She’s in no condition for this.”

“She _just_ needs to recite her statement,” Mycroft pressed. “Once we get the approval to move forward-”

“Mycroft, _no_ ,” Sherlock stood up, face to face with his brother.

“We might not be able to bring this forward again,” Mycroft warned sharply. “If Dr. Brenner is so _frightened_ , you both might do well to remember that without a pending trial, James Moriarty is to be released to the public.”

Amelia’s breath hitched at the thought. Looking at Sherlock in a panic, he took a breath.

“Just…” he considered their options, none of which were pleasant. “Get a postponement. New evidence came up and the government needs to verify its authenticity.”

Mycroft stared at him a moment, considering the suggestion.

Both men knew it was a weak excuse, but they didn’t have a lot of options at this point. If they threw the case out completely, Moriarty would be free to roam and terrorize again.

“Fine,” he seethed with a low sigh. “I will contact you with the details moving forward. Get _this_ figured out.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled to the smug satisfaction of his brother.

“Just- get out of here before the barrister sees you,” he added, a little gentler.

Sherlock plucked Amelia up and hurried toward a line of waiting taxis.

John was going to meet them at the flat, preferably with a tranquilizer on standby.

“I’m sorry,” Amelia managed once they were a few blocks away from the court. She looked a little calmer, though it wasn’t much of a difference appearance wise. She just didn’t seem like she was about to pass out from sheer horror.

Sherlock didn’t register the small apology, his mind a million miles away, running through everything that had happened.

Moriarty had planned for this to happen. To shame her. Make her give up one of the potentially largest fraud cases in decades out of fear.

Sherlock’s hand found hers. She gave it a tight squeeze. At the very least she was here and not buried in a trench somewhere. The only benefit to this was that Moriarty was keen on giving him preferential treatment.

* * *

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Amelia mumbled, wrapped in Sherlock’s robe, a cup of chamomile in her hands. She was sitting in the chair. She’d never sat in the chair, even her first night at Baker Street after her shop burnt down.

But this was another monster. This was bigger than Chemco and shady family relations; this was James Moriarty. And everything she could try and recall could be essential in figuring out what his play was. Or so Sherlock had assured her.

“The _beginning_?” Sherlock suggested dryly, earning a smack in the arm from John. He rubbed the spot, glaring at him pointedly. “It’s the _best_ way to parse everything out."

John just wanted to make sure she made it through all of this in one piece. With Moriarty on the mind, Sherlock tended to become hyper-focused, ignoring the comforts and general well-being of those around him.

It was all for a good cause, of course, but given the vulnerable state Amelia was already in- having been exploited by Moriarty that very day- he wanted to keep her _safe_.

“Are you okay if I record this?” John asked, holding up a small recording device. Amelia nodded and took a sip of the calming tea. “Just take your time.”

“A lot of it just phases together after a bit,” she explained after a pause of consideration, a chill going up to her spine at an unspoken memory.

John wasn’t sure if he was ready to stomach what she had to say. She looked so rattled, so _scared_. This woman who stared down the barrel of a gun and demanded that her uncle not be a coward and shoot her- _looked absolutely terrorized._

_What possible demons lurked in her mind?_

She took a deep breath and looked up between the men. It was her show. She was in the chair and they were ready to take on Amelia Brenner’s second case.

* * *

_"Feels like I'm falling_   
_Into a world_   
_Into a world_   
_I can't control_

_I hear it calling_   
_Down in my soul_   
_Grippin' my bones_   
_It won't let go"_

_"Wake me up  
Won't you wake me up?  
Caught in a bad dream  
Caught in a bad dream  
Wake me up  
I wanna feel the sun  
Caught in a bad dream"  
_

_-Ruelle **(Bad Dream)**_

* * *


	21. Undercurrent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh? A double chapter posting?  
> Trust me, I'm as shocked and appalled as you are.

* * *

**December 24th**

_“…what are you-?_ ” Amelia started, but she was cut off by a swift punch to the stomach.

Reeling over and dropping her phone, she tried to fight back when hands went to grab her from behind. To her detriment, however, someone caught her by the scarf in the scuffle, pulling her against an unseen second assailant. Somewhere, she registered someone crushing her phone with a single stomp.

Throwing elbows and yelling, the second person held her tight until the first approached with a needle in hand. Arms pinned down, he yanked the scarf free and dug a needle into her neck.

Her world was hazy, the world spinning into a whirlpool of blackness.

Tires screeching. Her body tossed not too gently into something hard.

Darkness.

She awoke on the floor of an enclosed room. Metal paneling concealing any doorways or windows, a single blinking camera in one corner, a small chair in the center. Head still swimming, there wasn’t much she could reason out aside from basic descriptions. A single panel of fluorescent lights.

She was alone.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” a male voice projected over an unseen PA system.

Or rather, she _was_ alone.

“You’re quite the little pit viper, aren’t you?” the voice continued. “Nearly broke one of my guys’ arms.”

Amelia smirked to herself. Too bad she hadn’t broken it.

“We’re going to be playing a little holiday game,” he continued. One of the metal panels in front of her turned around, playing a livestream of Sherlock and John finding her scarf on the ground. “You see, I don’t think the great detective will be able to focus on a few itty bitty cases while you’re out of the picture and in potential duress.”

“You clearly don’t know him,” she sassed back.

“But I do,” there was an opening across from her, the paneling sliding open to reveal James Moriarty himself, holding a microphone. “And I’m afraid he’s slipped up and is getting sentimental on me.”

 _Shorter_ than Amelia thought. Smaller too.

She took a few steps toward him, barely listening to his monologuing. Cliche. Lame.

To her credit, Amelia was pretty sure he didn’t see her fighting back as a possible option. She charged for the doorway, throwing all her strength into slamming his head into the door frame and leaping into the hallway.

He came alone. _Underestimated her._

 _Mistake_ , she thought to herself, picking a direction and sprinting down the long hall.

She made it through two doors before something violent shocked her system.

Dropping to the ground with a thud and a yelp, an armed guard jabbed her in the neck again.

This time, however, she remained conscious. Instead, she lost the use of her limbs, pathetically hitting the ground when she was tossed back in the room.

Moriarty held a gauge to the side of his head, laughing as he approached her, kicking her with all his strength into her ribs.

“ _Feisty_! Keep it up and I might just steal you from him permanently.”

Another kick.

“And here I was going to let you relax until my little game was over,” he continued, pulling up the chair and sitting in it.

The drug was beginning to wear off, giving Amelia an opportunity to try and scramble to her elbows.

“Fuck you,” she snarled, hand moving to cradle her tender side. “You’re gonna lose.”

“Not the nicest thing to say to someone who has your life in their hands,” he tsk’d. “Now what are we gonna do with you?”

“Let me go?” she asked sarcastically, pressing on her rib and wincing.

“Uh, no,” he rolled his eyes.

“Worth a shot,” she huffed, crawling to a wall and propping her back against it.

“You know, I’ve been looking at your research,” he mused, eyes glued to her in amusement. “Clever stuff. Not as clever as _mine_ , but certainly a bit inspiring, so to speak.”

“Gonna get me high?” she mocked, inwardly slapping herself for taunting the beast. Sherlock had warned her about taunting the bad guys after the first time she'd asked the gunman in her shop if he was going to shoot her.   
  
Is this how Sherlock ended up in so many life-threatening situations? Panic sarcasm? 

She was about to find out.

“I’m going to destroy the very essence of who you are,” he snapped, standing up and kicking the chair near her. “I’m going to twist your mind to such levels of madness that I’ll be sane in comparison, and then I’m going to drop you into your boyfriend’s lap and let you stew.”

He grabbed her jaw tightly.

“I’m going to break you.”

Heaving a long sigh, she held eye contact with him.

“That sounds _way_ less fun,” she grunted.

Moriarty paused, narrowing his eyes at her. It seemed like he was deciding something.

Maybe where he intended to dispose of her body?

“Goodnight, _Mia_ ,” he smirked before exiting the room.

Swathed in silence, Amelia dropped her head back against the cool metal paneling. Surely, Sherlock and John were already up in arms looking for her. It wouldn’t be long before they were busting down that door.

They always beat the bad guys, right?

Amelia was close to passing out from sheer exhaustion when a familiar melody began playing through the PA system, just loud enough to pull her from her tired trance.

“Sweet dreams,” came Moriarty’s voice. ****

**_“Take me home.. to the place… I belong… West Virginia…”_ **

And it played on loop almost continuously through the night and what Amelia imagined was the majority of the next day. If his goal was to prevent sleep, he succeeded. Each time she nodded off, it would shoot up in volume, lowering once Amelia was stirred awake.

Bastard.

* * *

**December 26th**

This was when the videos started. Vicious clips of some of the most depraved things humanity’s monsters could conjure.

It ranged from murder, torture, violent pornography… on and on, over and over, on loop.

And Amelia decided he wasn’t willing that easily- screeching out the song from the day before, slamming her hands on the metal paneling for hours at end.

She ignored her meals out of protest, kicking the food across the room when it was slipped through a crack in the door.

She shouted the lyrics until her voice was hoarse, and after that, continued banging on the walls until she tired herself out. Only two nights without sleep, and Amelia decided she could push it another night, the videos continuing.

* * *

**December 27th**

She’d fallen asleep.

Damned be all, she’d fallen asleep and dreamt of abuse and mutilation.

He wasn’t winning this easily.

Breakfast was on the ground next to her, and despite her growling stomach, she held it toward the camera and threw it aside.

Today, the screen was empty. The room was silent.

Her stomach hurt from neglect. _She was so damned hungry._

Another meal wasn’t dropped off that day, or so it seemed. Time was losing relevance and she’d initially measured her time by meal drop-offs.

He must have seen this little protest coming. Predicting that she’d be too weak and delirious to keep calculating things.

The room stayed quiet, though Amelia was on edge the entire time, waiting to be shown some horrific thing or ready herself for another round of sleeplessness.

* * *

**December 28th**

A small bottle of water had been placed next to her head while she’d slept. She guzzled it down without a second thought.

No food was dropped off.

No television or music.

She began to wonder if he was just waiting for her to die of starvation instead.

* * *

 **December 29th?** ****

The music started up again. A different song thing time, and after a few hours, he started intermingling it with videos of graphic torture.

This was the first night a tube was shoved down her throat and she was force-fed a blend of mush. Also the first night of the rope.

 _Nutrients_ , she’d been told while she kicked and screeched, three of Moriarty’s men pinning her down and tying her in place.

She vomited it all over herself, earning a fresh beating from the men holding her in place.

Even if it resulted in another tube being forced into her, she considered it a small victory.

* * *

**December 30-something-th**

This was when the drugs started.

She woke up, ready for another force-feeding, but was instead met with a large syringe and two meaty guards.

They’d made a mistake in not leaving her tied down. It wouldn’t happen again.

She was paid back with a split lip and another needle jabbed less than tenderly into her jugular. She was thrown back onto the chair, the effects taking over quickly.

Music and the videos started. She was certain that she’d soiled herself.

* * *

**January?**

Someone mentioned a New Year’s party when the door opened briefly.

Had it been a week? Felt like longer.

Someone had thrown a bed into the room. Well, not really a bed; _a cot._

People spoke quickly. The drugs were wearing off, someone muttered, hauling Amelia to her feet.

 _The room smelled rancid,_ a guard complained.

She vaguely recognized the hallway she’d attempted to escape in. Lots of doors.

Did she hear muffled screaming? 

Someone threw her into a small room, stripping off her clothes and shutting the door.

The water was freezing, but it at least woke her enough to give her brain some clarity.

 _Soap_. She found a bar and started scrubbing away the filth and grease. Her hair was less than manageable, but she still did her best to work the suds into her scalp. It’d have to do.

Clothes were thrown in when she finished. T-shirt and sweatpants. No undergarments.

At least she wouldn’t be _naked_.

She’d come up with a plan to try and escape when they came to take her back, but the guard was faster than her, jabbing another syringe into her veins. They set her back up in the chair, arms and ankles tied down.

Instead of violence, it was a CCTV of Sherlock and John talking to Greg Lestrade. Scotland Yard, her mind hazily registered. Moriarty had access to internal cameras.

_Of course, he did._

At least they were safe. _Scrambling_ , but safe.

“They aren’t looking for you,” Moriarty’s voice commented, almost soothingly.

“ _Game_ -,” she choked out. Her throat was dry, but it was probably the first time she’d spoken in days. “You’re _fucking_ with them.”

He didn’t say anything, the video shifting to abstract images and ominous music.

She didn’t understand until the hallucinations began to kick in. Every creature from her nightmares, beast, and monster tormented her. At some point, her screams just gave out, her vocal cords broken from prolonged use.

Amelia only barely noticed the blood around her wrists from struggling against the binding.

* * *

**Probably January**

This continued nonstop for days. Or what felt like days. Time didn’t feel real anymore. What seemed like hours to her might have only been five minutes.

She was given a little time to rest and clean at some point. She smelled terrible and actually looked forward to the freezing shower.

When she was back, more drugs, but someone had been nice enough to sanitize the room and layout a cot.

How _sweet._

Amelia wasn’t sure what was a dream or reality after she crashed on the cot. There were bits and pieces of Baker Street, mixed with cold metal and burning ropes.

She was losing her mind. Moriarty was winning and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what to do.

 _“You need to focus on sensations you know are real,”_ Sherlock was sitting on the floor in front of her, cross-legged, eyes watching her intensely.

“Floor,” she slurred, fingers dropping to touch the cold metal floor.

 _“Good,”_ he nodded. _“What does the cot feel like?”_

“Scratchy,” she mumbled, rubbing her cheek against it.

 _“Do you feel pain?”_ he asked and Amelia burst into tears.

“You’re still coming, aren’t you?” she whispered to her hallucination through a hiccup.

 _“Have you really started to doubt me?”_ he smirked and stood up. “ _We both know he’s keeping me busy to make it difficult to find you.”_

“But you will?” her voice cracked.

 _“Amelia, you ridiculous woman,_ ” he knelt down next to her face. “ _You’re not dumb or blind to what happens around you. Moriarty is hurting me by hurting you. He knows I lo- care- for you very much.”_

“Do you?” she blinked. “John said you did... I didn’t... I think I accidentally fell in love with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He smiled, and when Amelia blinked again, he was gone.

* * *

**Probably fucking March or something.**

Sherlock Holmes, the hallucination, was an unusual perk to whatever the hell was pumping through her body.

Amelia didn’t know if he was real. If she’d been more rational, she would have known otherwise. However, whatever her subconscious was manifesting to keep her grounded, she would take it.

John made appearances from time to time, particularly after a nasty beating. He’d comment on a potential break, maybe point out extra cloth she could tear off of something to make a bandage or sling.

He disappeared when the abuse stopped, all at once and abruptly.

Sherlock remained, pointing out that eating the meals was better than having them shoved down her throat. Resisting would result in deeper wounds on her wrists, and that could lead to infection...

The psychological abuse ramped up in the last days.

More violent videos. More hallucinations of monsters and demons. Moriarty would talk to her over it. Repeating phrases and words she didn’t understand, over and over.

Sherlock disappeared after that. No matter when she tried calling his name or trying to force her brain to bring him forward, all she found was _terror_.

“Emancipation day,” Moriarty sang when Amelia was lifted pathetically from her cot. “Let’s see...” he lifted the corner of her shirt, examining the healing injuries. “Didn’t lose too much weight. No permanent _physical_ damage.” He chuckled to himself. “Let’s get you cleaned up, _darling_.”

The rest was a daze.

Amelia remembered warm water, a middle-aged woman carefully scrubbing and cleaning her.

When she was dressed, another woman detangled and trimmed her hair, straightening out the curls and pulling it back in a neat braid.

She was given a delectable lunch, which she picked at tentatively, waiting for the trick.

After eating, Amelia felt sleepy. Those around her seemed to understand when she began stumbling around the room.

So that was it, she realized bitterly, someone laying her on a freshly made down bed. A sedative or a poison. Would she wake up? Or was Moriarty setting her friends up to find her dead?

There was a small shuffle in the room, with all the strength Amelia had to muster, she forced her eyes open to see Moriarty sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Sleep tight,” he whispered, reaching forward and pulling down her eyelids.

An obnoxious pounding noise woke her.

Were the neighbors hitting the wall? Who was being so rude?

 _Door_ , her brain supplied.

Right. Door. Someone was knocking on the door.

* * *


	22. Repercussions

* * *

_And we try and try to figure out what "normal" is around here. Is "normal" solving murders? Is it saving one another from the week's newest maniac? I can't imagine any of us in a nice little house with a fence and a dog, so what is even "normal" anymore?_

* * *

The first video showed up the next day.

Amelia had been alone in her room when she screamed, throwing her phone across the room, bringing down a few plants when it hit a shelf.

By the time Sherlock and John got to her, she was in her closet, blanket over her head, hyperventilating. John coaxed her out and Sherlock watched the clip with a steely expression.

Later that night, Mrs. Hudson’s cell phone rang an achingly familiar American Country tune floating from the downstairs, the landlady complaining that the ringtone was different.

The second video appeared on the tele when John and Amelia were waiting for Sherlock to return from a case at the Yard a few days later.

This one was similar to the one that John and Sherlock had received back in December, except Amelia was ripping at her arms, screeching like a wounded animal. It replayed, over and over, and when John finally ripped the power cord from the wall, it popped up on their cell phones and laptops.

Amelia didn’t say a word, eyes glazed over while the screams permeated the walls of the only safe place she had in this world.

When they met with Mycroft at the Diogenes Club, he wouldn’t meet her eyes. He kept his questions directed to John and Sherlock, only being straightforward when Anthea stepped in and offered to take Amelia for some lunch.

“We know he’s a madman,” Mycroft waited until the door was shut before speaking. “And it’s clear what his game is at this point.”

“What about the court? Amelia’s therapist should have submitted-,” John offered, only to be cut short by more bad news.

“Thrown away,” Mycroft looked like he was seething at the news. “All three judges voted against a criminal proceeding against him, though they were willing to move forward against the board at Chemco.”

“He’s the one that bribed them,” John snapped.

“He likely bribed the judges as well,” Sherlock muttered, earning a grunt of agreement from his older brother.

“He also gave one of my agents _this_ ,” Mycroft held up a USB that was sitting on his desk. “After he was released from custody.”

“And what’s that?” John demanded, still seething from the previous news.

“It’s the entire surveillance footage from December,” Mycroft’s focus fell on his younger brother.“Everything up until the moment we knocked on the hotel room door. It isn’t pleasant, but I think you should see it.”

Sherlock wordlessly reached for the device, fumbling with it a moment in his hands before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

“What now?” John asked the brothers. Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged uneasy glances before the older brother spoke.

“We move onto the next case,” he replied tersely.

John fumed out of the room at that, leaving only Sherlock and Mycroft in the ornate office.

“Would you like some advice, dear brother?” Mycroft leaned back on his desk, watching Sherlock. “Move forward.”

“It’s not so simple,” Sherlock replied, standing up and straightening his scarf. 

“It is once you detach yourself from your self-blame,” Mycroft noted firmly. “The only person to blame is James Moriarty.”

“How bad is it?” Sherlock held up the USB.

“I felt sick to my stomach by January,” Mycroft answered truthfully.

“I shouldn’t have let it go past twenty-four hours,” Sherlock pocketed the USB and started for the door. “Let Anthea know we will be meeting them.”

* * *

No one knew how to handle themselves after that.

Sherlock, against both Amelia and John’s insistence, watched the video.

After a few days, John skimmed through it as well, shutting himself away in his room for a few days. He wouldn’t leave her alone after that, treating her like a fragile glass figurine.

Both men refused to let Amelia have access to it, but Amelia knew exactly where to look for the USB, finding it tucked inside of the skull on the mantle.

She saved it to the same drive as the Chemo data, returning it less than an hour later, no one was the wiser. Amelia knew she needed to get her nerve up to watch it, unsure of what she’d find on the other side.

She told Ruthie that she was staying with her mother, then boys she was staying with Ruthie and her mother that she was staying with Molly, and checked herself into a hotel across town. Under her fake ID, of course, knowing that neither Sherlock nor John had any reason to know that particular name.

She brought a small bag of clothes, two bottles of wine, and her computer. Hooking the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door to her room. She pressed play, the video starting out familiar; her escaping the room after shoving Moriarty, the subsequent capture, and so on.

She sped up the time, watching scenes she recognized, and slowing it when she didn’t recall something.

The whole thing had sound, and she winced when she heard some of the beatings, and gagged when the force-feedings started, all were still relatively clear in her memory. What she didn’t recall was those last few weeks to days.

There was more blood than she remembered, between vomiting and fighting back as much as she could. At least Amelia could say she fought like hell to the very end.

What broke her heart were the times she was tied in the metal chair, whispering to herself, occasionally screaming for help, begging for John and Sherlock. Or the times she had what she’d thought were full conversations with the detective but were actually incoherent ramblings of her talking to herself out loud.

All in all, it wasn’t quite as bad as having experienced it herself. There was certainly savagery that she didn’t quite remember, but the incessant sense of dread was all the same.

That was when she realized that the video wasn’t ever meant for _her_.

It was meant for _everyone else._

She returned back to Baker Street a day later, Sherlock demanding to know where she’d been, and she handed him her laptop, disappearing to the basement while he opened it. 

It was only fair that they all be on the same page, she later defended when John asked why Sherlock wouldn’t leave his room.

Amelia knew that they’d all have to confront each other about it eventually. There was no way they’d all be able to move forward without having done so. Sherlock was the one who made the first move, crawling into Amelia’s bed one night, wrapping his arms over her.

“I understand if you want to leave,” his voice rumbled against her back.

Was _that_ what he was worried about?

“And go where?” she asked, still facing away, her hand finding him and tracing circles over his palm with her thumb.

“Back to Brooklyn? Away from all of _this_ ,” he replied.

 _Away from me_ , she could hear between the lines.

“None of this was your fault,” she stated, hearing his breath caught when she spoke.

“Moriarty targeted you because of your relationship with me-,” he began and Amelia rolled to face him, scowling at his insistence.

“All of this happened because I couldn’t listen to you for five seconds and not taunt the bad guy,” she replied sternly.

“It’s a defense mechanism, you didn’t know any better,” he countered. “You were kidnapped because of me.”

“I was kidnapped because some guy has this insane obsession with you and your magnificent mind,” she tapped his forehead lightly. “How is that your fault? You can’t control other people, as much as I know you wish you could.”

He huffed in response.

“I should have found you then,” he corrected. “Rescued you before…”

“The crazy guy did crazy things to try and make us all crazy?”

“Stop brushing this off!” he protested, voice cutting the still night air. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“You’re trying to justify your self imposed misery,” she murmured softly, reaching for his cheek and running her thumb over the skin soothingly. “You can be angry and sad, but don’t put it on you, put it on the person to _blame_.”

He sat upon his elbow, looking down at her, his expression impossible to read in the dark light.

“Where have you been?” he whispered, fingers tangling themselves in a few of her stray hairs on the pillow.

“I was on Bleecker Street for a while in college-,” she teased, silenced when a small smirk tugged at his lips. _He was so_ ** _pretty_** , her mind buzzed, the dim street lights catching the subtle blues of his eyes.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he continued, his brows furrowed a moment, as if he was trying to analyze something.

Slowly, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Amelia reciprocated in kind. It was the type of kiss that had them panting, and Amelia desperately wanting to pull her nightclothes off, but he caught her by the hand before she could grab the bottom of her shirt.

“Not… not yet,” he rumbled, pulling her to his chest and wrapping an arm over her.

Sighing, Amelia peeked up at him with a pout.

“Making me wait,” she grumbled, earning a light chuckle from her companion.

_“It’ll be worth it.”_

“Don’t make checks you can’t cash, Holmes.”

* * *

Elsewhere in London, behind expertly trained marksmen and steel doors, James Moriarty stared at the wall while another hapless MI6 agent tried to get something of use out of him.

It was to be expected, after all. He had a brilliant mind and those in power feared those more clever than them. They usually wanted to extinguish those minds or exploit them.

Still, he was enjoying the brief respite from his obligations. There meals a day, a bit of peace and quiet- lots of time to think. Unfortunately, it was when these agents came by and rambled on and on about negotiations or how he can help the world, he grew weary.

What could they offer? He had anything he could have ever wanted in terms of material goods. Immaterially, he had power, influence, and ruled over his global kingdom with fear.

He heard the shift of the agent leaving the room, the door not quite closing when footfalls stopped a few meters away.

Someone _new_ , he realized with a small twinge of excitement, freezing and waiting for them to speak first. He never wasted his time with such boring things such as _small talk_ or reasoning.

“What if we discuss Sherlock Holmes?”

* * *


	23. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.   
> I really needed to write this.   
> I swear I was going crazy thinking about homework and whatnot. It's nice to escape for a while. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience! I'm removing the author's note from the previous chapter after this publishes and as an added bonus; I've got a handful of chapters ready to be posted in the next few days!

* * *

_I believe there are perfect moments in life, but only briefly. I'm not trying to be pessimistic, I think that our happiness is a compilation of these small moments in our day to day lives. A warm cup of tea on a chilly day, a kiss at the ideal moment. Little perfect moments shared between people who care for one another._

_I'm happiest when these moments come one after another. When the domesticity of living meets these tiny moments in such an intimate manner, you forget that there's a whole universe outside the moment._

* * *

“ _Amelia_.”

Jerking awake, Amelia drew in a sharp breath, squeezing her eyes tight to catch her bearings.

Sherlock was well versed in how to handle her nightmares by this point. Each night was another look into the terror her mind had crafted for her by Moriarty’s hand.

“Where are you right now?” Sherlock’s low voice coaxed softly, drawing her focus onto him.

“Baker Street,” she replied, her answer rewarded with his hand finding hers under the covers. “Your room.”

“What can you feel?” he continued, and she snuggled into him.

“Blankets,” she reported quietly, eyes closing while she took a breath to steady herself. “My pillow, _you_.”

“Smell?”

She paused, sniffing the air with a low hum of satisfaction.

“Old books, flannel, and _tobacco_ ,” her eyes popped open and she looked to him. “You’ve been smoking again.”

“One,” he assured her quickly.

“Mhm,” she mumbled, burying her face into his chest. To his amusement, she took another sniff.

“What was the dream about?” he asked, pulling the quilt over her shoulders, watching her settle back into bed.

“It’s not important,” Amelia replied stubbornly. “We can talk about it in the morning.

Always the same game, every night.

“Amelia...”

“You never tell me when _you_ have bad dreams, it’s not fair.”

“I wasn’t recently tortured.”

“You were _psychologically_ tortured,” she countered, poking his nose.

“It’ll help me sleep if you tell me,” he tried through a forced yawn.

He could practically sense the eye roll, despite it being too dark to see clearly.

“That’s bull and we both know it,” she huffed.

It must have been a particularly nasty nightmare.

It was time to pull out the big guns:

“ _Please?”_ he asked when she tried to roll away from him.

Amelia let out a frustrated groan before relenting.

“I was back in the room,” she sighed, tentatively divulging more details as she went. “But you were there and there was this wall separating us. No matter how much I screamed and shouted, it was like no one noticed I was there.”

She threw her blanket over her head, mumbling about getting back to sleep.

“That’s not all, is it?” he asked, knowing full well that the shouting that caused him to wake her wasn’t stemmed from such a simple dream.

“Do we _have_ to do this?”

“We don’t _have_ to do anything, I know you sleep better after discussing it,” he reasoned. “Go on then.”

“They always involve some depraved thing, it isn’t fair to you,” she was giving in. Just a few more pushes and she’d spill the beans.

“You do know what I do for a living, right?”

“Oh stop, it’s not the same when it’s personal, _you_ taught me that,” she brushed a hand over his cheek.

_“Tell me.”_

“There were videos, and the drugs made them enhanced,” she explained, waving off the details he was aware of. “But I think he got them himself or filmed them through some of his _enterprises_.”

It made sense. Moriarty had his hands in some of the darkest, most inhumane markets in the world.

The man was willing to kill the elderly for potential power grabs. He wasn’t above much in terms of masochistic tendencies.

“The ones with _children_ were the worst,” she whispered, voice hollow. “The vulgarity... the... sometimes they’d be pinned down and someone would cut out a kidney from a screeching toddler. It just...”

She shivered and he pulled her closer. Any normal person would be horrified by such a sight, and he knew that Amelia was the type of person to throw a fit over killing a fly rather than letting it out the window.

Even Sherlock felt sick to his stomach listening to the details some nights, each abuse more creative and disgusting than the next. Sure, he’d seen the video, but what she’d experienced and seen was on a whole other level distorted by her own muddled perceptions.

“My brain keeps replaying it over and over,” she murmured through a yawn. “And then you’re there or John or Tommy- those are the worst, I think.”

“But you know everyone is safe,” he assured her, repeating what her therapist had told him to repeat during these episodes. “John is snoring above us, I’m right here.”

“Mrs. Hudson is in her room, Tommy is with his parents, my mom is in France, I know, I know,” she huffed. “I know.”

She was getting fussy, a normal reaction once they dug into things. It wouldn’t be long until she fell back asleep.

“And you’re safe too,” he replied, beginning to draw light circles with his fingers across her back. “Incredibly safe.”

She hummed in contentment, another yawn escaping.

“Because you never leave me alone,” she grumbled, her body immediately relaxing at the touch. “ _S’annoying._ ”

“I don’t think you mind,” he hummed in response. A third yawn. Good.

“The bathroom-,” she cuddled closer. “I don’t think anyone’s gonna get me on the toilet.”

“Can’t be too sure.”

“Mhm,” she replied. “S’little cute...”

“You think I’m _cute_?” he teased.

“With your dumb face... and stupid hair,” she was trailing off, her body going lax after a few more minutes. He stilled and her breathing had evened out, fast asleep.

* * *

“Very original title, John” Sherlock snorted, reading over John’s shoulder while the doctor updated the blog. “‘A Case of Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettles’, _hilarious_.”

John glared up at his friend, fingers hovering over his laptop.

“The whole case is about betrayal, plants, and pharmaceuticals,” he shot back. “It’s a _clever_ title. Stinging Nettles hurt, and Poison Ivy takes a little bit to react.”

“What about chemistry? There was plenty of chemistry,” Sherlock added quickly. If John didn’t know any better, he would have thought the detective was worried his part was being left out. “Could have called it the chemical equation for psilocybin mushrooms.”

The case _had_ kind of solved itself- in a sense. There hadn’t been quite as many deductions as usual.

“Well, our _client_ is a botanist,” John rolled his eyes playfully, returning to typing at the computer. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of mention of your glorious prowess with chemical reactions.”

“Actual chemical reactions or _physical_ chemical reactions?” Amelia teased, popping up from the couch with an affectionate touch of Sherlock’s arm. She went into the kitchen to find something to eat, snickering under her breath.

“Considering the two of you haven’t even-,” John started, focused on his blog post, ignoring the glares the duo shot at the back of his head.

“ _Not the point,_ ” Amelia squeaked back, throwing a loaf of bread onto the counter. “I was trying to be cute.”

“I think you’re _very_ cute,” Sherlock replied, moving to his chair and pulling out his phone.

“Not the point of the case,” John supplied with a shake of his head. “The case was about a potentially murderous CEO, and ended up being full of twists and turns. It’s a good blog post, and people are going to love it.”

“You know, _theoretically_ , James Moriarty saved the day,” Amelia noted from the kitchen, shoveling grilled cheese sandwiches on a plate. “We never did figure out the solution to the mushroom poisoning.”

“It must have had something to do with inflammatory markers,” Sherlock grumbled. “I managed to isolate an unstable component.”

“And I _still_ was saved by Moriarty,” she replied dryly. “So he could manipulate all of us and make me a little crazier than I already was. _Peachy_.”

“I like your crazy,” Sherlock murmured when she passed him a sandwich.

“How _romantic_ ,” she cooed back, kissing his cheek.

“Get a room,” John grumbled, closing his laptop.

“We have two rooms, do you have a preference?” Sherlock shot back with a bite into his lunch.

“Be nice to John,” Amelia countered, handing John a sandwich and kissing the top of his head. “He puts up with you like a saint and deserves a Congressional metal.”

“Wrong country.”

“I’m _aware_ , but I have no idea what you do here,” she dropped onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh. “Some kind of ornate teapot? A gold plated crumpet?”

“I’d take a Congressional medal,” John supplied, biting into his sandwich. 

“Perfect, problem solved,” Amelia grinned back at the detective.

He didn’t reply immediately, his brow quirking while he scrolled through messages on his mobile.

“We have a new case,” Sherlock voiced with his mobile in his hand. “A missing painting.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Amelia perked up, shimmying her shoulders. “What painting?”

“A waterfall? _The Falls of Reichenbach_. It went missing a few days ago with no trace,” he explained, thumb scrolling through an email. “Boring, but something to pass the time.”

“Nature? Art? I’m in,” Amelia chimed up, mouth full of grilled cheese.

“I figured as much,” Sherlock snorted. “John?”

“You ask now? I just assumed we needed to clear out the schedule for a trip to the museum.”

“Someone is testy today,” Amelia muttered. “Who put the bee in your bonnet?”

“I’m trying to update the blog,” he huffed. “We’ve got a lot of new subscribers and I’m falling behind. I barely got up that case with the maid in time.”

“I could tag along today,” Amelia offered. “Then you can finish your blog posts.”

“Oh no, my luck and this will be the case that makes or breaks this blog,” John folded his laptop shut and stood up. “I’m not missing a second.”

“You know, when we’re all old and retired, we should write tell-all books or something,” Amelia mused, finishing her sandwich and going for a jacket. “Same stories just told three different ways.”

“Two different ways of complaining about Sherlock, you mean?” John teased when she tossed him his jacket.

“Or two biographies, and one sultry tell all of the one time we held hands in public,” Amelia grinned.

* * *

Sherlock woke to an empty bed, his hand absently searching for the warmth of his companion, but finding nothing.

Sitting up, he noted the other side was undisturbed, suggesting Amelia had never gone to bed that night.

Probably a bad dream, he reasoned, grabbing his robe and starting for the living room.

The flat was completely silent in the early hours of dawn. Only the soft pads of his footfalls indicated any life in the room.

He continued searching, no sign of Amelia on the sofa. No rumble of John snoring, either. For good measure, he checked the basement and decided the pair must have gone for breakfast and started a kettle of water.

“Sherlock?” Amelia’s voice called from the front door. “Sherlock, is that you?”

She sounded scared and he rounded the corner immediately.

When he laid eyes on her, he felt like he was going to be sick.

“Sherlock, look what happened,” she pointed to a large bullet hole at the side of her head. Blood was dripping down her shoulders, staining her jumper in large crimson blossoms. 

John shuffled in behind her, hand over his chest.

“It _hurts_ ,” he coughed, stumbling toward his sitting chair. Identical blossoms spread from his chest. 

“Why did you let this happen?” Amelia looked up at him, wide green eyes watering at the edges. “We’re _dying_ Sherlock.”

**Burn the heart out of-**

“ _Sherlock_ ,” a hand was gently shaking his shoulder.

Sherlock gasped, eyes shooting open.

Bed. He was in his bed and Amelia was-

He started searching frantically, but she touched his arm softly, indicating she was safe next to him.

“ _Again_?” she whispered, hand moving to cup his cheek. “Tell me what happened.”

It was like they took turns waking one another in the night.

Both doing their best to adjust to the new reality of things.

Both trying to forget the damage wrought by Jim Moriarty. 

“I need to _finish_ him,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against hers. She was nervous. A little anxious. Worried for _him_.

As much was obvious when she sighed and looped her arms over his shoulders.

“Not right now,” she replied. “Right now, we’re going to get you back to sleep."

“I can’t sleep anymore,” he grumbled in frustration. “I need to think.”

“ _Please_ Sherlock,” she watched him scramble out of bed and begin pacing the room. “Don’t let him in your head like this. Don’t let him win.”

“I’m going to figure this out,” he vowed, starting for the living room. "I just- I need to clear my head."

Yawning, Amelia stretched her shoulders and crawled out of bed behind him.

“You should go back to sleep,” he voiced over his shoulder when she appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.

“I thought I’d start some tea,” she shrugged, a knowing smile on her lips. They both knew she wasn’t going to let him spiral through the remnants of that nightmare alone. “Maybe begin on some breakfast and convince John not to murder you when you wake him with your playing.”

Sherlock just stared at her, heart racing at her casual kindness. She moved around the kitchen and he lifted his bow, fingering through a few scales before playing a few notes that slipped from his heart.

What did the name Amelia mean again? he mused, the music flowing freely while he thought through the schematics of a potential plan.

Ah, that’s right- _striving_.

His Amelia.

His sweet, ever patient, ever kind, Amelia. The woman who pushed him to be a better man, to earn that look of adoration on her face whenever he walked into a room.

_Striving_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-Continuity Note: We're about three-ish months before the Series 2 episode "The Reichenbach Fall".
> 
> Extra bonus goodies because I love you all: 
> 
> I've started a Spotify playlist for this fic!   
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ANpZmFgkhWyIswHspgbTM?si=0R3QIgeqQkOkgX2dWWmUOw
> 
> I've also started a blog on Tumblr specifically for my AO3 fics: AO3PorcelainStorm   
> I'm going to start posting fics on there, as well as inspo, pics, and other goodies you might enjoy if you like my work- plus I want to connect with all of you and chat!


	24. Wildflower

* * *

_pick me a wildflower in the morning_   
_and i'll hold it with me always where I'm going_   
_and when i feel sorrow or death is in my view_   
_i'll wear my wildflower perfume_

_**-The Dead Tongues (Wildflower Perfume)** _

* * *

“Which English chemist and physicist is credited with the discovery of hydrogen?” Amelia challenged on the walk to the museum.

“Easy, Henry Cavendish,” Sherlock answered. “Which artist is credited with starting the impressionist movement?”

“Is that a joke? Claude Monet,” Amelia shot back. “What’s the rarest naturally occurring element in Earth's crust?”

“Astatine,” he furrowed his brow. “What Greek hero was the Statue of David originally one tended to be?”

“Hercules,” she smirked. “What year was Prozac authorized by the FDA for market distribution?”

“I’ll give you a month and year- December of 1987. Though the Belgians approved it a year prior.”

“Could you two cut it out? You both have very big brains, congratulations,” John cut in. “We’re here.”

“How many years ago was this museum established?” Amelia whispered, pointing to the British Museum” entrance sign.

“267,” Sherlock smirked. “Who was credited with its early founding and contributions?”

“Sir Hans Sloane,” she replied. “What was the name of the 17th Century mansion that originally housed the collection?”

“ _Montagu House_ , and will you two quit it?” John nodded up toward the museum director and a pair of administrators who were approaching the trio.

“Good morning,” he greeted, shaking everyone’s hands but Sherlock’s, who kept his arms crossed in front of him. “I do hope you have good news.”

“I’ve determined who stole the painting,” Sherlock stated.

“And pray tell, where is it?”

Sherlock eyed the female administrator next to the director.

“Why don’t you tell us, Mrs. Harvey?” he asked and the woman immediately flushed.

Stammering through a lie, she realized the jig was up and sprinted for the exit.

Fortunately, two guards stopped her before she could get very far.

“The police retrieved the painting in her flat this morning,” Sherlock explained curtly, following the director through the main atrium of the building. “I deduced it was her after she mentioned having to pawn a necklace the last time I was here.”

“It was an easy way to make a quick buck with a not so famous painting,” John agreed.

“She was the only one who had access to it, along with two other interns who weren’t scheduled to be here the night it went missing,” Sherlock continued.

“Ironically, they attended an art show at a gallery I knew the owner of,” Amelia added. “He was more than willing to let us confirm their alibis with the security footage.”

“She would have gotten away with it had she not left behind a scuff mark from her broken high heel,” Sherlock noted. “The measurements matched a woman of her height and weight precisely.”

“ _Incredible_ ,” the director clapped his hands together. “I knew I made the right call in contacting you.”

He thanked the group again, inviting them to luncheon once the painting was returned to the museum, which John and Amelia both accepted enthusiastically.

“Why do I have to go?” Sherlock whined on the way home.

“Because you look good in a suit,” Amelia grinned.

“Because you saved the picture and deserve a little credit,” John added with an eye roll at Amelia’s comment. “Besides, a newspaper story will add a little more validity to the blog, which will bring in more clients.”

“I agree, I _do_ look very nice in a well-cut suit,” Sherlock mused. “I’ll go. Briefly.”

Amelia smirked at John when he realized how easily she’d convinced Sherlock.

“Can you convince him to get rid of the kidneys in the freezer?” he asked quietly.

“I _heard_ that,” Sherlock responded without a look back.

“They are really gross Sherlock,” Amelia cringed. “They’re long past necrotic. There can’t be anything worthwhile left.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you had such pressing business in the freezer,” he scoffed. “I’ll dispose of them tonight.”

“And _not_ in the garbage disposal,” Amelia warned. “Last time you stunk up the apartment for a month because we couldn’t get the liver fully washed out. Walk it out to a bin or give them back to Molly.”

“You’re too high maintenance.”

“And _you_ have gross hobbies, but healthy relationships are about sacrifice,” she threw a bright smile back at him.

“Amazing,” John awed under his breath. Amelia Brenner was a Sherlock-whisperer.

The pair bickered a little about the best way to get rid of human remains, with John citing various medical codes that Sherlock constantly ignored.

“What happens if someone reports a poorly disposed femur to the Yard?” John challenged when they walked through the front door. “There’s a dignity to these things.”

“I try not to empathize with remains,” Sherlock stated.

“That’s a little sad,” came Amelia’s response. “They _were_ people, at one point.”

“And now they’re dead.”

“But they had loved ones,” she continued, smile faltering. “People who probably mourned their passing.”

“These were unclaimed corpses, no one bothered to come to find them,” Sherlock countered, pulling off his jacket and scarf.

“That’s even sadder,” Amelia’s expression fell some more. “What if they couldn’t claim them because they couldn’t afford a funeral? Or someone’s son was missing because of drug addiction or something and they didn’t even know he was dead- but his body was too mangled to be identified and now the family will never have closure?”

The men both stopped and looked at her, standing in the doorway, close to tears.

Turning to Sherlock, John pointed toward her and frowned.

“And _that’s_ why the kidneys do not go down the garbage disposal, have a little respect, won’t you?”

* * *

The luncheon was enjoyable, even with Sherlock’s general attitude about the whole thing.

“Diamond cufflinks,” he commented when the director handed him a small package. “Mine are held with buttons…”

“He means _'thank you_ ',” John cut in, glaring at Sherlock when he took the package.

Amelia was busy chatting with some of the museum docents, asking about some of the artifacts the massive museum held. She clapped enthusiastically, balancing a champagne flute between her fingers when Sherlock and John posed with the painting.

“How come we haven’t started a scrapbook?” Amelia teased once the boys were free from their press obligations. “I’m betting that was a great picture.”

“The blog is a scrapbook,” John noted and Amelia nodded.

“You’re right,” she hummed, sipping her drink. “We should upload newspaper clippings. The validity of the blog and such…”

“You’re unemployed, sounds like a fun project for you,” John laughed, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

“Collecting newspaper clippings of my, er,” she paused, looking to Sherlock listening to one of the donors gush about his success. “ _Sherlock_.”

“ _Boyfriend_?” John tried, plucking a champagne glass off a passing waiter’s tray.

“Is he?” she asked with a cringe. “Doesn’t act like any I’ve had before.”

“Haven’t you two talked about it?” he asked.

“Not explicitly,” she mumbled, holding the glass up and finishing the rest of her drink in a swallow. “Is that an explicit conversation we should have?”

“Are you exclusive?” he rephrased.

“That…” she frowned, her brows knitting together. “I’m assuming? We both end up in a bed together at the end of the day.”

“You should probably clarify _that_ ,” John hummed, grabbing another glass of champagne for his friend. She took it gratefully, downing it in a single sip.

“It sounds so dumb when you say it out loud though,” she grumbled, bringing a hand to her cheek and making a mocking face. “Oh, _Sherlock will you be my boyfriend_?”

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to ask,” Sherlock commented over her shoulder.

“Why do you always do that?” Amelia set her glass aside, turning to adjust the collar on his shirt. He tried to push her hands away, but after a glare, he let her continue fussing with the unwieldy clothing.

“He’s very sneaky, Mia,” John tipped his glass in her direction.

“It is my job to be discreet,” Sherlock countered, watching Amelia’s expression until she seemed satisfied with the fold in the shirt.

“So, what do you think?” she asked.

“I think I should have worn a tie,” he touched the collar.

“I agree, but I wasn’t talking about that,” she snorted. “Are we… going steady?”

“ _Going… steady…?”_ he asked, biting back a laugh, sharing an amused smirk with John. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to ask you to the big homecoming dance.”

“Fine, if we were dating, we’re now broken up,” Amelia smacked his chest, causing him and John to erupt into a fit of giggles.

 _Giggles_.

The two grown-ass men were snickering like a couple of children at an art exhibition for a stolen painting they found.

“Amelia,” Sherlock caught her by the arm, pulling together the most sincere expression she’d seen on the detective. “Will you… go steady with me…?”

His voice broke at the end, another round of chuckles overcoming the pair.

“Nope, you two are being mean at my cultural inconsistencies and I no longer wish to be your friend, goodbye forever,” she turned on her heel and started for the exit.

“Oh thank god,” John muttered, following hurriedly after her. “Throw a bigger scene and get us out of here.”

“Something like this?” she grabbed a random drink off a nearby table and threw it at his chest. A hand over her head, she spun around and moved swiftly to the door. _“Goodbye John Watson, you’ve broken my heart for the very last time.”_

“I think I’m in love,” Sherlock stared after her, absently handing his friend a fabric napkin.

“She ruined my favorite shirt!” John sputtered, dabbing at the cloth.

“-Still caused a pretty good scene,” Sherlock gestured to the perplexed looks from partygoers around them. “Time to follow through, old chum.”

* * *

“I promise, I’ll get it cleaned,” Amelia repeated for the hundredth time once they’d returned to Baker Street.

“You have absolutely no impulse control,” John grumbled, though he had long forgiven the auburn-haired florist.

“It’s a personal flaw I’ve been trying to work on,” she countered through a sigh.

“You should start with trying not to challenge people to shoot you,” Sherlock mused from the top of the stairs. “Someone is actually going to shoot you one day.”

“Or _me_ ,” John muttered, distinctly recalling the exact scene the day her uncle shot him.

“That was _not_ my fault,” she pointed toward him. “You jumped in the way. I was fully prepared to take that bullet.”

“It was aimed at your head, you idiot,” John sighed.

“It’s not my fault neither of you has sufficiently taught me the appropriate life skills required to be your friend,” she reasoned. “You’re a soldier, and you’re… _you_. I’m just a nerd who is really into plants. What can I do? Throw flower petals at the bad guys?”

“You did throw a potted peony at your uncle,” John reminded her. “That did knock him out.”

“Thanks, John,” she huffed.

Sherlock listened to the conversation, dropping into his chair and considering Amelia’s words, fingers steepled in front of him. 

She wasn’t wrong. Compared to him or John, she was a positive pushover. If she got into a fight, she might have an upper and because of her height, but against a skilled fighter? She stood no chance.

Not to mention her tendency to throw insults and punches first, and ask questions later, she was bound to end up in some dire situation without him or John to help her.  


And after Sherlock was gone-

“-I’ve shot a gun once,” Amelia was bickering with John.

“How is that possible? You’re _American_ ,” he gaped back at her.

“We don’t fire our 44’s at breakfast time,” she blinked back at him. “Did you think we all are given an assigned firearm at birth?”

“We’re going to teach you how to fight,” Sherlock stated, cutting into the conversation. “Properly.”

“But what other excuses will I have to bring you with me to the toilet?” she asked sarcastically.

“If you two shagged, _that’d_ be a good excuse,” John murmured, earning a punch in the arm from his female friend. He scowled at her, holding his arm. “You didn’t even do that right. Don’t tuck the thumb, you’ll break it.”

“You’re too preoccupied with our sex life,” she snapped back.

“You two need to get it out of your system,” he said, pointing between Amelia and Sherlock. “It’s messing with the energy of the flat.”

“You’re a butt,” Amelia grumbled, going in for another (proper) punch and being blocked by the now smug doctor. “You can’t do that. I’m _learning_.”

“ _Ha_ , _ha_ ,” John rolled his eyes, pointing to the nearby bookshelves and television. “Not near anything of value, you aren’t.”

“We should go to the recreation center,” Sherlock voiced. “Amelia, change into something more practical.”

“The one you stole a pass to?” John asked when Amelia looked down at her dress sadly.

“I barely got to wear it for an hour,” she mumbled, retreating to her room when Sherlock just stared in response. “You’re impossible. Saturdays are for _rest_.”

“ _You_ started it,” John smirked after her. “Do you need my help?”

“I think I’m going to need as much help as possible,” Sherlock replied after the pair heard Amelia stumble down the final steps to the basement and call up that she was fine.

* * *

_tomorrow'll be leaving before nightfall_   
_my captain has now heard sirens call_   
_and as the ships sail the ocean so blue_   
_ill bathe in wildflower perfume_   
_still picks two wild flowers every morning_   
_and waits in wake of love still returning_   
_and calls for post-run every afternoon_   
_to send me wildflower perfume_

_**-The Dead Tongues (Wildflower Perfume)** _


	25. Sunflower

* * *

_I couldn't want you any more_  
_Kiss in the kitchen like it's a dance floor_  
_I couldn't want you any more tonight_  
_(Tonight, tonight, tonight)_

_Wondering headshake_  
_Tired eyes are the death of me_  
_Mouthful of toothpaste_  
_Before I got to know you_

**-Harry Styles (Sunflower vol. 6)**

* * *

“I understand that this is a good idea for the long term,” Amelia said. “I really do, but I think we should have started with something simpler.”

She, Sherlock, and John were in her bedroom, with John carefully wrapping the potentially broken ankle she had managed during that day’s “training”.

“You need to be careful with this ankle,” John scolded. “You’re too old to keep injuring the same spots over and over.”

“That was _months_ ago,” Amelia protested, but paled when John pressed a finger into a particularly tender spot. “I’m not old. I’m young compared to the two of you grumpy old men.”

“I don’t understand what was so difficult about the instructions,” Sherlock complained, lounging in Amelia’s chair by her fireplace. “I warned you to _jump_.”

“And then you pushed me over!” she insisted. “That’s not a jump, that’s a dodge or move out of the way.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” he explained. “A real threat isn’t going to announce what you need to do.”

“It’s been a month, I can barely throw a punch,” she replied.

“The bruise on his shoulder suggests otherwise,” John supplied quietly, tying off the wrap. “You should be all set. I’ll see if we can get you in for X-rays in the morning.”

“It didn’t take me this long to learn self-defense,” Sherlock continued, tossing a bundle of hair scrunchies in the air above him.

“I’m incredibly out of shape, and have noodles for limps,” Amelia added. “I’m not even attempting to attack this at the level you would have. I’d die.”

“I think you’re doing great,” John assured her. “You’re getting faster and your reflexes are getting better.”

“John’s my new head coach,” she high fived the doctor.

“John’s in charge of firearms,” Sherlock turned to face them. “We’ve been over this.”

“There was that nice Judo guy who wanted to show me something,” Amelia reminded him. “You just get mad when anyone else touches me.”

“That’s not true, I’m fine when you hug John,” he stated.

“Hug,” Amelia repeated with a laugh toward John. “He’s fine when we _hug_.”

“You’re too casually affectionate in general, but as long as it’s directed toward our friends, that’s tolerable,” he clarified.

“I’ll keep that in mind for my afternoon shag with Judo guy,” she retorted.

He looked to John for support, but the doctor did what he did best when the pair disagreed- held his hands up and backed out of the room.

“Not my fight,” he replied. “I’m going to shower.”

“I’m not _casually_ affectionate,” she paused. “Just to you guys. And Mrs. Hudson. And Molly of course.”

“You touch everyone and everything at all times,” he raised a brow. “You’re very open with your feelings.”

“Oh,” she replied, voice dropping. “That’s not ideal, is it?”

If she was going to play detective with him and John, it probably was not in anyone’s best interest to show what she was truly thinking at a crime scene.

“Do you need to conceal your true thoughts on anything?” he asked.

She considered the question. If she was being frank, the answer was no. Most of her time was spent around those she cared for and loved. If she was happy, she was happy. If not, she certainly was not the type to try and hide it for very long.

“Am I a bad liar?” she asked.

“You have a tell,” he replied, leaning forward with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“You _laugh_ ,” he answered. “When you’re nervous, when you’re being sarcastic, and when you’re lying. Anytime you’re being disingenuous, you laugh.”

“That’s not too bad,” she considered, biting down a chuckle that threatened to rise. He just raised a brow and she sighed in defeat. “I’ll work on it.”

“Just like you’d work on beating me in Cluedo?” he challenged, standing up from the chair.

“Rematch, tonight,” she stood to meet his eye line, poking him defiantly in the chest. “We’ll have John play too, even the playing field a bit.”

“You’re going to lose.”

“You’re-,” she stopped, thinking about her reaction, pulling back the scowl that emerged. “Nope. I’m going to win.”

“I know you’ve been looking up strategies online, and they aren’t going to help you,” he looked down. “Because I’m the best there is, and _you_ especially can’t fool me.”

“Maybe,” she hummed back. “But I can distract you.”

She moved to kiss him by stepping on her tiptoes, but having forgotten her ankle, ended up crashing forward when it collapsed under the shift in weight.

In a mass of momentum, they crashed to the ground, Sherlock buffing the fall with an arm, and dropping his head back when she landed on top of him.

“That could have been so much cuter if we’d landed on the bed,” she noted, peeking down at him. “Are you okay?”

“How did you make it to adulthood in one piece?” he asked. “There was no way you should have made it past infancy with how clumsy you are.”

“Recently I’ve had handsome gentlemen catching me, it’s been pretty nice,” she smirked. “I mean _, look at this view_.”

They were face to face, Amelia grinning over him, while Sherlock’s eyes traced every inch of her face.

He pulled her toward him, devouring her in a passionate kiss. Hands threaded through her hair; her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Amelia shifted for a better angle when her foot kicked a pile of canvas tucked next to her bed.

The artwork tumbled free, and she peeked up to see what had caused the commotion.

“Oh,” she turned and grabbed one of the pieces, a small painting of one of Mrs. Hudson’s teacups. “I forgot about that one.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s drawn-out sigh, she busied herself with replacing the knocked over pictures, pausing when she came to the last one.

“I never showed you the painting I meant to send to Brooklyn,” she realized, staring forward at the painting in question.

He sat up, realizing the moment was lost and tilted his head in her direction.

“You never sent it?”

“Never had the chance,” she replied, turning, and holding the large piece up.

The silhouette was familiar, a lithe man standing in a room covered top to bottom in books. He held a violin, his back to the viewer. In the foreground was a pile of sheet music with a single bookmark stuffed between piles of pages. On the bookmark was a delicately drawn sunflower.

It was painted with darker shades than most of Amelia’s other works, less floral and more warmth. Sherlock could picture the living room of Baker Street perfectly. The sound of fire crackling, the smell of leather bookbindings.

This was what she saw. It was comfortable, a little mysterious, but familiar. An old friend.

An adored lover.

“Does my hair really look like that from behind?” he asked, earning a snort from his companion. “I like it. The bookmark is a sentimental touch. What did you call it?”

“ _Faith_ ,” she replied. “It’s one of the many meanings behind a sunflower. I thought it was appropriate.”

“How so?”

She looked at him, genuinely bewildered by the question.

How did he not know?

“You inspire people,” she answered, looking back at the details in the portrait. “You give people hope in a way. People _believe_ in you.”

It was difficult to explain out loud- hence the portrait (she was an artist after all)- but Sherlock didn’t seem convinced at her explanation.

“Do _you_ believe in me?” he asked simply.

“I painted you a portrait,” she laughed lightly. “I still live here after everything, and we spent the last five minutes making out on my floor. I’ll _always_ believe in you.”

He seemed content with that answer, his hands snaking around her waist and encouraging her to replace the picture and pick up where they’d left off.

* * *

“This was a bad idea,” John voiced for the third or fourth time since the game started.

Amelia was wrapped up in Sherlock’s robe, fingers drumming on her chin while she studied the Cluedo board. She lifted her notecard, lowered it, and continued gazing at the board.

“She’s under this delusion that she can beat me,” Sherlock scoffed, twirling a pen between his fingers, leg jittering under the table.

“I will, this is it,” she announced, moving her piece. “Colonel Mustard, with the wrench, in the observatory.”

She motioned for John to open the packet; brows knitted in focus.

Even Sherlock leaned forward, watching their friend with interest.

“That’s right,” John held up the three cards. “You got it.”

Amelia threw down her cards and grinned, jumping up victoriously.

“I actually did it!” she looked to Sherlock, hands squeezed at her sides in excitement. “I beat you at Cluedo.”

“Impossible,” he grabbed her cards and notes, reading through everything. _“How did you know I had the garden?”_

“You showed John,” she replied excitedly. “I saw him scribble it down.”

“That’s cheating!” Sherlock snapped back.

“That’s deduction, my dear Mr. Holmes,” she smirked. “I thought all was fair in a game of Cluedo? Those were _your_ rules.”

“I didn’t expect them to turn on me,” he huffed.

“I’m texting Lestrade,” John announced, phone pulled out. “He’s not going to believe this.”

“Don’t you-,” he whirled around at Amelia who was rapidly typing something into her own phone. “Who are _you_ texting?”

“ _Mycroft_ ,” she answered quickly. “He owes me twenty pounds.”

“You bet against this game?” he scowled, glaring back down at the board. “You must have cheated. John? Did you tell her anything?”

“You would have noticed if we’d been conspiring against you,” the doctor replied. “You lost. Accept defeat.”

“Unacceptable,” Sherlock paced out of the room toward the kitchen, returning with his finger pointed toward Amelia accusatorially. “You distracted me.”

“What?” she blinked up at him innocently.

“In your room, you threw yourself at me and threw my focus off,” he replied tersely. “You knew you could get the upper hand.”

“That sounds like a _personal_ problem to me,” she smirked. “Besides, I’ve never distracted you before.”

“Are you naked under that bathrobe?” he demanded, stepping toward her.

“Jesus Sherlock,” John stood up. “She’s wearing pajamas, you can _see_ them.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock pulled open the robe to reveal an old band shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants. “You tricked me.”

“I outsmarted you,” she laughed. “ _Without_ being totally naked. I’m the superior detective. Dr. Watson, mark the date that I ascended to alpha detective within Baker Street.”

Sherlock’s face fell into a mix of horror, confusion, awe, and shock.

Without another word, he grabbed Amelia by the waist and threw her over his shoulder, trussing back to his room.

“John, find something to do that isn’t here,” he called over his shoulder before slamming his door shut.

Sherlock’s scramble to get Amelia undressed was met with her own quick hands tugging his belt free.

Frenzied hands up and down, pulling at buttons, running through one another’s hair, with hungry kisses, with Sherlock hiding her backward toward the bed.

“Are you sure?” he asked when she was down to a bra and underwear. She was ethereal. Her chest was flushed, her cheeks a mix of blush and freckles, curly hair astray-

“I’ve been waiting much longer than you have,” she purred, pulling him forward and meeting him with her lips.

John was partially out the door when he heard the ruckus upstairs. Mrs. Hudson peeked her head out of her flat, looking up and exchanging a knowing look with the doctor.

“About time,” she sighed, a bit of relief. She cringed when something crashed above them. “I hope that wasn’t the china.”

“I’d put those headphones Sherlock got you for Christmas on,” he advised dryly. “I think we’re in for a long night.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo- I never marked this story with a smut warning, so I'm keeping it PG(-13)ish. If that's something y'all would be interested in, do let me know and I can maybe, possibly, post a few addendums outside the main story >>
> 
> Also! If you haven't started following my dedicated Ao3 Tumblr account, you should!: Ao3porcelainstorm
> 
> And if you're interested, my spotify playlist for the story: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ANpZmFgkhWyIswHspgbTM?si=cUpeKvJ9Rd2l6EY5lnmpkg


	26. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to make it as close to perfect as possible, which meant rewatching the episode a few times and well.. you get the idea.

* * *

**The Journal of Amelia Brenner**

_My therapist suggested I try writing down my thoughts. She said it might help me reflect on all that’s happened, a way to take on the grief._

_I don’t really have a lot to say. I don’t think. I’ve never really been a writer, words are hard to come up with. It’s fair easier to throw a bottle of red paint at a wall and call it anger._

_So I’ll just write down what I know._

_John’s started up with his therapist again. I guess he’d stopped since meeting Sherlock, but since everything- he’s not doing well. I don’t think any of us are._

_We moved out of Baker Street. There’s too much there. Everything just radiated Sherlock Holmes and I think the memories are still too fresh for both of us._

_Ruthie is letting us rent the apartment above the old flower shop. The whole building was rebuilt and renovated. It’s better than it was before the fire- if I’m being honest. Not to mention, it’s bigger and doesn’t have the distinct smell of human flesh and sulfur._

_John’s at work a lot more. When he’s home, he goes straight to bed. Sometimes he’ll come home stumbling from the pub._

_I get it. I’d done my fair share of drinking alone, watching Doctor Who reruns all day._

_Molly won’t answer my calls. I’m worried she’s not doing well, but I can’t find the energy to get dressed and visit in person. I can’t find the energy to do much anymore._

_I tried painting the other day and ended up kicking a hole through the canvas. John came home and found me with a bottle of Merlot, laying in the middle of my room- the walls coated with thrown bottles of paint._

_He suggested I get a day job to pass the time. Maybe he’s right._

_All of my free time had become Sherlock._

_I followed him to crime scenes, talked to him, laughed with him, slept with him. Everything was him. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t bad at all. For once, it was nice to feel important, to help bring happiness to others. I was spending time with the man I love and my best friend, every day._

_Who could ask for anything better? I loved my life and now it’s careening off the rails and no matter how long I stare at the cliff I’m headed toward, I refuse to accept the reality for what it is._

_Sherlock Holmes is dead, and there’s nothing that will change that._

* * *

Amelia had been through her fair share of no-win scenarios.

It wasn’t missed that the majority of them had happened since Sherlock stumbled into her life, but she wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. Life lessons and finding love; all that nonsense.

So, when Moriarty wasn’t convicted for his part in the large crimes he’d committed in broad daylight, she realized that once again, they’d fallen into his game. A game where there were never any winners in the end.

Sherlock didn’t handle the news well. He was short-tempered, distracted, and when the little girl screamed as she’d recognized him, Amelia didn’t miss the murmurs and rumors that stirred after he fumed out of Scotland Yard.

She didn’t miss the uneasy look John shot her, or the other officers’ eyes boring into her back- more rumors that connected dots regarding her relationship with the detective.

He’d had a meltdown before they tried to arrest him, ranting about Moriarty making his move.

He was in the spotlight now, John had mentioned so much after the painting had been returned and Sherlock’s photographs peppered the front pages of local papers.

It was a wise time to strike, on Moriarty’s part, even Amelia had to sheepishly agree with the logic.

When Sherlock, and soon John, were arrested, Amelia hurried out to watch the men run off- Sherlock acting like he’d lost his mind.

She sprinted after them, promising Greg she’d calm them down. Figure out what happened.

 _Clear his name_ , was the unspoken promise between her and the unnerved inspector.

The boys moved fast, reminding Amelia exactly who she was working with. They were a step ahead of her the whole day.

Sherlock was getting desperate and did his best work in those cases. People tended to underestimate those at the end of their rope, and she’d almost fallen into that trap.

Thankfully, John shot her a text after an hour into her search.

An address tied to some reporter Sherlock had mentioned during the trial.

It was _something_ , and she hoped the detective hadn’t mucked up the whole thing. The media would have a frenzy with his seemingly insane actions of the last twenty-four hours. She already was dereading the newspapers in the morning.

The British media was a brutal, cruel monster.

She arrived at the address, electing to listen to the voices inside bickering when a familiar voice commented behind her.

“You know what I love about a tragedy?” Moriarty purred when Amelia spun around. “It’s always preventable. Some miscalculation, some overzealous emotional decision- but the hero overlooks the obvious solution.”

Something snapped in Amelia. Fueled by a rage she’d ignored in lieu of healing, she shoved him back against the hallway wall.

He seemed genuinely surprised by the outburst, laughing quietly when she pinned his neck under her forearm, cutting off his breathing.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” she snarled. “I have every reason to.”

“They’ll think Sherlock did it-,” his face was turning blue, but still he grinned at her. “ _Fraud_.”

Amelia hissed an insult under her breath and pulled away. He was right. Of course, he was right. This was _his_ show, _his_ story, and they were all playing their parts perfectly.

“Keep an eye out for the papers tomorrow, love,” he coughed, grabbing a grocery bag off the ground, humming a familiar tune under his breath.

Something clicked in Amelia’s brain and before he could unlock the door, she whirled around and slammed a fist into his gut.

It wasn’t the most powerful hit, but he still reeled over in pain, and that was enough for her.

“You’re not going to win,” she snarled in a low voice. “I’ll kill you myself if it comes down to it.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he smirked and slipped into the apartment.

* * *

John met up with Amelia at the Diogenes Club.

He was thumbing through paperwork that he’d taken from the reporter when she’d arrived, frowning deeper with every word he read.

“He was sold out,” he murmured, handing her the files.

“What?” Amelia blinked in confusion, reading through the intimate details of Sherlock’s life.

A twisted review of the good he’d done, skewed by some distorted story about some actor named _Richard_.

Richard, whose face belonged to the monster from her nightmares.

The whole thing reeked of Moriarty, but the details...

They involved things only she or John would know and included some things she never knew. Intimate details. Personal details that only family might know.

“You think Mycroft told him?” she whispered, handing the file back to her friend. “When he in custody? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know he did,” John stated firmly. “Who else? _We_ didn’t.”

The thought sent a chill up Amelia’s spine. His own brother. No wonder Sherlock seemed like he was slipping. The whole world was attacking him at every side.

“Is he on his way then? Mycroft?” she asked and John sighed, shrugging.

“Apparently,” he murmured, shaking his head at something he read. “They said he’s usually here by now.”

Amelia nodded and stood up, hand on her phone in her jacket pocket.

“I... I’m going to wait outside,” she mumbled. “I don’t think I could look Mycroft in the eye if he actually did this. We can... Just let me know when you’re done.”

John wasn’t paying much attention when she slipped out and started dialing Sherlock’s phone.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Sherlock?” she inquired quietly into the line.

“Are you safe?” he quickly questioned.

“Yeah I’m- I’m with John,” she replied. “Where are you?”

Amelia swore she heard a breath of relief through the line.

“Hospital,” he answered briskly. “Molly is... She agreed to let me stay out of sight here.”

“What’s your plan?” Amelia asked.

“Not yet,” he replied tersely. “I can’t tell you yet.”

“Then you know whatever it is, I’m here to help,” she stated firmly.

“I know,” he paused. “Just stay with John. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead, and Amelia shoved the phone back in her pocket. She paced around the sidewalk in front of the Diogenes Club, head ringing.

Moriarty’s words kept playing in her head. A _tragedy_.

It was clear what was happening, between the story and the doubt the maniac had sowed in everyone’s heads. The public would slaughter him alive when that bullshit story hit the shelves the next day. Sherlock, while a difficult and moody person, was sensitive to the opinions of others, no matter how he tried to play it off.

This had the potential to break him.

Amelia didn’t like the thought of where this could lead. She didn’t like the thought of losing what little peace she’d cultivated in her life. She was scared shitless and shaking when John found her waiting outside.

“I was right,” was all he said before tucking her under his arm and pulling her into a hug. She sighed, wishing that all her worries could wash away with the brief respite. When John pulled away, he looked at her directly.

“I’m scared too.”

* * *

The trio reunited at the hospital laboratory.

“The computer code,” Sherlock explained, bouncing a ball between cabinets, eyes fixed forward. “Somewhere in Baker Street... on the day of the verdict, he must have hidden it.”

“What did he touch?” John asked, approaching, eyes following the ball as it bounced between the floor and counters.

“An apple, nothing else,” came Sherlock’s response. He stood up, fist-clenching around the rubber ball, eyes scanning the air as if the answer would appear.

John tapped idly on the counter, throwing out ideas when Amelia saw Sherlock suddenly tense.

It was subtle, but she watched him glance at the pair before turning away, fishing his phone from his pocket and quickly typing out a message.

When he turned back around, John had been oblivious to the action, but he met Amelia’s questioning look with a frown.

He wasn’t going to tell them his plan, she realized when he started wordlessly bouncing the ball again.

A few hours passed, with John falling asleep about halfway through their waiting. Amelia sat propped against the cabinets on the ground next to Sherlock while her phone charged in a nearby outlet- just watching him.

She watched him fidget and check his phone from time to time. She watched him pace, eyes searching for something not present.

Occasionally he’d mumbled under his breath or bounce the ball again.

She watched him do everything in his power to avoid looking at her or John.

That deep, unnerving feeling she’d felt at the Diogenes club had re-emerged.

This wasn’t going to end well, she predicted. She didn’t know how or _what_ was going to happen, but she knew Sherlock well enough to understand when he was a dozen paces ahead and he didn’t seem pleased.

He knew the endgame, and he knew she would immediately be able to tell that something was off. That’s why he didn’t say anything about his plan.

John’s phone rang, pulling the doctor out of his brief nap. A few quick words and bolted up, looking to the pair while he threw on his coat.

“ _Paramedics_ , Mrs. Hudson they say she’s been shot,” he explained breathlessly, tossing Amelia her coat off a nearby chair.

“What? How?” Sherlock’s response came coolly. Unphased. _Unsurprised_ , even.

“Probably one of the killers you managed to- _Jesus_ , she’s dying, let’s go,” he started for the door, Amelia following behind without question.

“You go, I’m busy,” he stated, staring off in the distance.

 _That_ wasn’t the right response. Amelia stared in shock, looking to John then Sherlock, for someone to say something else.

John’s expression shifted in awe- anger, surprise, frustration all bubbling to the surface.

“ _Busy_ -?” he choked out, hands shaking at his sides.

“Thinking- I need to think,” came Sherlock’s short reply.

This didn’t read right to Amelia. He wasn’t that heartless-

“You need to- doesn’t she mean anything to you?” John’s voice broke slightly. “You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

“She’s my landlady.”

“She’s dying- _you machine_ ,” John spat out, hands body shaking. When he realized the truth to his own words, something crossed his features and he backed away “Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, be alone.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me,” Sherlock replied, still unmoving.

“Friends protect people,” John snapped. “C’mon Mia.”

Amelia sent a final look to Sherlock, her expression falling when he wouldn’t break away from his selected spot on the wall in front of him. Avoiding her.

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

Hurrying after John, he was about to slide in the cab when she felt her pockets, realizing her wallet and phone had been left behind in the lab.

“Go ahead,” she called to him, turning back to the hospital. “I’ll be right behind you!”

John took off without a second thought, while Amelia raced back to the lab, stopping when she saw Sherlock in one of the back halls- headed for a staircase.

To her surprise, he didn’t notice her, his expression lost in thought while he marched forward, almost trance-like. She stood and watched until he was out of sight, her heart thrumming against her sternum.

 _Something wrong_. Her mind repeated over and over.

Her gut said to follow him, but against her instincts, she let him be. She slipped back into the lab, spying her phone on the counter with a new message from John.

**Mrs. Hudson is fine. Somethings wrong.**

She _knew_ it.

Racing up the hall, she could hear a closing door above her when she reached the stairs.

 _Rooftop_ , her brained supplied, and she sprinted up the steps two at a time, pausing at the metal door leading to the roof.

“...nice you choose a tall building, nice way to do it.”

James Moriarty.

There was a beat before Sherlock’s voice sounded.

“Do it? Do what?” he asked. “Yes of course... my _suicide_.”

Amelia’s chest tightened.

“Genius detective proved to be a fraud, I read it in the papers so it must be true. I love newspapers,” Amelia could hear the voices stepping away. “Fairytales... and pretty grim ones too.”

What could she do? What was there to do?

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

She wasn’t supposed to be listening.

She fumbled with her phone, shaking hands trying to type out a coherent message to John.

Sherlock in trouble. Moriarty here.

Anything-! But before she could send, an adrenaline rush sent a hitter through her arms and the phone tumbled out of her hands and down the stairs.

_Nononononono_

This was like her nightmares. Her inability to save anyone. Her curse being forced to watch while-

A gunshot rattled the door and Amelia decided she’d had enough. She’d face whatever awaited on the other side, regardless of who pulled the trigger.

She didn’t expect to find Moriarty, dead on the ground, Sherlock looking panicked, and a gun in the maniac’s hand.

“ _What are you doing here?_ ” Sherlock was on Amelia in a heartbeat, grabbing her arm and spinning her to face him. “You’re supposed to be with John.”

“My phone-,” she stammered gesturing toward the door, eyes still wide. “Sherlock, what’s happening?”

Moriarty dead. Sherlock on the roof. Suicide.

“No, no, you can’t be here,” he ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia, you need to leave. You can’t see this.”

“He’s dead, what are you talking about? He’s gone,” she tried putting words into sentences that would make sense, but the way he was stumbling around made her second guess her attempts at calming him.

“He’s going to kill all of you, he hired assassins to-” he finally managed, his expression resolved in the information. “Unless...”

“You _jump_ ,” she whispered, a hand moving to cover her horrified expression. “Sherlock, think logically, there’s- he’s playing on your emotions. He wants you to think there isn’t another plan- we can call Lestrade or your brother-.”

“There’s no _time_ ,” he explained, grabbing her arms. “Please, do this for me. Go downstairs. Forget this, forget all of this.”

“Sherlock you can’t be serious,” tears sprung up in her eyes. “You’re being irrational. Let John and I help, we’re your friends-.”

He cut her off with a frantic kiss.

It was a desperate last kiss that would have normally swept Amelia straight off her feet.

Instead, she clutched into the front of his jacket when he tried to pull away and back toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Please, Sherlock,” she begged. “You can’t- _I love you_. So many people love and cherish you and I... _please_.”

He was on the edge of the building, legs wavering slightly when he looked down. He took a breath, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

“I’m calling John,” he stated, hand holding the phone up for her to see. 

Right. _John_.

John would talk some sense into him. He’d see reason when John-

She didn’t hear much of what was said. Her mind was racing, running through ways of saving him.

Pull him down, stop the jump- _anything_ , but every scenario still ended with him plummeting to his death. 

Amelia felt so useless. So pathetic. So helpless.

He was determined to make things right and, in his mind, this was the right path. He’d do what he had to in order to see this through to the end.

She stepped closer while he was distracted, and when he turned to drop the phone, he gave her a final look, a sad smile.

“I love you, Amelia,” he said. “And I beg you, please, don’t watch.”

And before she could reach for him, he jumped.

An inhuman noise escaped her, and though every temptation was there for her to watch his descent, she threw herself to the rooftop and buried her screams in her knees.

Screams filled the street. Onlookers yelled for help.

Her heart felt like it’d been ripped clean of her body. Disbelief danced with the reality of what just happened in front of her own eyes.

Everything felt like a dream after that.

Mycroft ended up being the one to find her, his agents approaching the scene first.

Normally, Amelia would have given him a piece of her mind regarding his place in all of this, but she numbly let him guide her to where John was on the street below.

She caught snippets of conversations. People being interviewed by the police, the random clicks of journalists documenting the famous detectives fall from grace, EMTs murmuring about what it all meant.

Her mind was trying to make sense of it all. Trying to pry some semblance of sanity from the chaos around her.

She found John sitting on the back of an ambulance with a patch on his head.

She didn’t say a word as she approached, instead just wrapping him under her arms and letting him choke out a few tears into her jacket. They’d both been left behind.

The tragedy of Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the unpoetic end he’d faced, it was the guilt and questions he’d left behind in those who cared the most for him.

* * *


End file.
